[Old and Unreadable] Max's Thought-Provoking Poetry

The Good Ones

Those that exude complete and utter perfection
They're popular, sporty and downright quintessential
Perfect hair, perfect eyes, surrounded by friends and literally alight
You try to become them, a mere acolyte
Weary, you grow, hungering for their existence
But it is futile; not worthy of your persistence
Listen well, for you do not need to be these people
They are nothing, your huge building's steeple

Nothing, these people.

Their very existence is a taunting joke
tormenting your daily life
Staring at them in your isolation you can't help but think:
You are but the egg white, and they are the yoke
While you sit hunched over, reading away your worries
They are oozing production
And happiness, inspiration
But you still sit, enjoying your paper manacle's small mercies

But they are not you, and you are not them.

However this is in its infancy
Or, if not, at least the end of the chapter
And when you at last break free of these people
Realisation will hit like a crashing tide
Why did you ever twist yourself
Why did your idolisation force you change
Why were you so desperate to be these people
When it means nothing on a clean slate?

Thanks for reading. Any feedback?