Lines of Perfection

Its taken me a while
to realize how many versions
of perfect there are

spinning around in circles
eyeing our own versions 
of what a diamond is
tottering as we attempt to walk
the tightrope

the closer you come
the farther you stray
not enough for them
becomes too much for me

as what drives us, cripples us
losing yourself in all the lines
the sticky webs of our own creation
each one, unique

we make our own beds
and we lie in them

never satiated
our ambition for a perfection
that is ever changing
an illusion of
"the end"

a game that somehow morphed
into an unintended torture 
we design for ourselves
because what we are
can never be enough
we will always be
too this, too that

the apple of our eye
hanging just above our maws
dangling from a string
attached to our own heads

the lawn across the way
no matter how far you go
will always seem greener

we seek perfection
whether knowingly, or unknowingly
not realizing, that for someone else
we are the apple they dangle

chasing one another
in lawns that couldn't be any greener
we are perfect
just never in our own eyes