I stare at the blank white canvas
Paintbrush clutched between my fingers
Wondering, pondering, searching for inspiration
Only one thought, just one, lingers.
And then, the emotions in my heart are cascading
Onto the canvas, I imagine colours galore
Through my art I am trying to tell the world
I am a perfectionist, but to me isn’t there a whole lot more?
People only skim through the surface
Does anyone really bother to delve deep?
They see a girl straining to be impeccable
She is a perfectionist is all they perceive.
No one sees her mind beset with worries
How perfection is a double-edged sword for her
Always pushing her towards her ever rising goals
Making her restless, causing anxiety to occur.
People think it’s a blessing to be good at what she does
But there is something they don’t comprehend
The mountain of pressure to maintain standards
Which weighs her down and makes her overextend.
They do not understand or care about her struggle
They casually appreciate the end result of her strife
But isn’t the journey more important
Than the destination to which she has arrived?
But if they did try to unravel her mind
What is tightly locked up in her heart and soul
They would be bewildered by her churning thoughts
Her doubts and apprehensions left unsaid, untold
The frustration of being so finicky and meticulous
Fear of not doing her best bubbling deep within her core
Anxious and distressed, she walks alone
Still determined and diligent to reach her goal.
I take my paint brush and splash colours onto my canvas
Raven-black for fear, and for worry, greys and sky blue
A deep reddish brown for frustration and orange for resolve
And for pride, of the bright yellow colour, various hues.
After I have completed my abstract work of art
My handiwork I admire, yet with a critical eye
To the world I remark, “It may not be perfect
But then again, believe it or not, neither am I.”