On the Stance of Perfectionism

The perfect... Was it ever?

Courage, oh courage,
Beneath lies, the forbidden heights;
Misfortune and imperfections,
Loneliness and misconceptions,
Happiness and addictions;
What for, is perfection?

Deemed as dislikeable,
Wherefore, agreeable,
In pure reason, aesthetics;
The fault of people,
The fault of tradition,
The fault of science,
And most likely, the fault of religion.

Everything is! Excuses,
Such mere incompetency,
Blinded by happiness,
Discourage by truth;

Drowned on entertainment,
Fulfilled by faults;
The blind eye,
nevertheless finds happiness;
The eye, its about the eye,
Look... Its I,
The one who find faults in you,
The one who finds...
Every and any, its I.

Discourage, oh discourage;
How pleasing, the eye is,
I've observed your existence,
Its... laughable;
How mundane, mediocrity is,
You could be perfect...
Only to be wasted.

Solitude... I pondered,
The absolute... He wondered;
This absurdity, all sacrificed for simplicity!
Mundane is your language!
All is unsatisfying, yet content with hideous remarks.

You belong, and therefore longs;
Almost as if satisfied with missing two-hundred-ninety-nine pieces of puzzles,
Thus, remains one.
This is happiness to you?
Unmendable, yet commendable.

Hide, truly hide!
I understand your incomplexities:
The damaged spirit,
The unmendable soul,
The broken will,
The reductionist mind,
And so, the dreadful character.

Am I still a human?