I've heard some people whispering things,
From different cliques and different rings,
Of my weird, strange habit of getting in the way,
Oh I just can't help it! I just have to say:
That table ledge is not parallel to that wall,
That writing is much too close to a scrawl,
Someone's folded the corner of my page,
The curtains are much too dark for that stage.
You haven't ordered your books alphabetically,
In fact, you've done it rather pathetically.
Sorry I didn't mean to offend,
But your hair's also too strange a blend.
Crisp sheets, not a line misplaced,
Such perfection is hard found and hard replaced,
A letter to the teachers however,
You can't just write whatever you please where-ever!
Always use a ruler when I draw a line,
Never use a blunt pencil, the tip's always fine.
Never a bubble in my contacted books,
Not a single mistake to overlook.
And yet something's always lacking,
In this perfection something's cracking,
My patience has since worn thin,
And my perfect world has died from within.
I am no more near perfect than when I was born.
Expectations still unreachable till this day,
No matter how hard I try.
And oh, how I try.
