The Perfectionist

She mingles only with such ones

Free from indecent, there's not a trace

Ways are clean as her place

Her declamations, always chaste.


Her life, spick and span

Perfection's in her voice

Discontent's a word she's never heard

With meekness and modesty, she makes her choice.


She practices to derision,

She never is derisive

Mature are her decisions

Seems with no mistakes is how she lives.


With diligance and steadfastness

To her promises she's seen

Unmovable, firm, like a wall,

From trouble and strife she's freed.


Proned to sadness, though,

I must advise you

With self-confidence not evident

For never a thing can she do


Her doors do not open

All her ways are locked within

Free will does not live within her,

She lives her life as does a machine.


She only can step forward

She never can slip back

All her ways are controlled

What's chosen for her, her every act.


No right or left turning,

If so, she's thrashed

But before anyone witnesses,

She stumbles back upon her path


With circular brown patches

Upon her face and chest

For this reason she is seen with coats,

And tons of makeup to conceal the rest.


And when she's asked about her family life

She faces the floor, her shoulders slouch

She's turned on silent mode, no one to second guess

And that's why happiness in her has never been found.





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