I don't strive for perfection.

I don't, striving is much too hard
It's a whole lot easier to fake.
It's much easier to scrape up the pieces
and pretend it was completely your idea.

I take pieces.
Not pieces of my life.
Pieces of hers, and his, and who knows...
Probably yours.

I take pieces and try to paint them
With colors that I think are my own.
But they're not, and I know they aren't.
They're the colors of someone better.

Because there's always someone better.
Always.
I'm good.
Sometimes I'm great.
But good or great isn't better.

Because the number is never small enough
(I lie)
The colors are never bright enough
(I lie)
It (I) never look(s) good enough.
(He...She...They...) No one's ever going to care.

And I never have enough time.

So I'm obsessed with the pieces.
I pick them up, slowly, but desperately.

Because I don't strive for perfection.

I starve for it.