The Naked Troubadour

The Price of Perfectionism [poem]

Posted on Jun 11, 2017 Updated on Jun 11, 2017

There is a price to be paid for perfectionism’s
purple pros(e)aically prejudiced plume
which we can grownly assume is roughly equal to:
EITHER
ª  The harsh disapproval directed one’s way
     [for high expectations will always dismay
     as low self-esteem and a lack of resolve
     result in resentment, so none get involved!].
OR
ª   The aloneness one has (dressed in freedom’s disguise)
    [for almost the whole world will run for their lives
    when they hear of the earnest desire to preserve
    one’s nature unswervingly: “He’s got a nerve!”]

So nextly I have a small question to ask
of readers who’d throw me a bone in this task:
“Is perfectionism after all merely protectionism?”
[pause for a snigger and spluttery laugh]
For in clean isolation where humans dare not go
(as angels beat them to it many aeons ago)
high above the clouds of pain’s dark afterglow
the perfectionist rests on his laurels,
a
l
o
n
e
in quarantined exile; no hurt to dethrone
his lovelessful bliss and his heart [ersatz stone]
with no compromise until, one day [maybe],
some beauty who’s crazy & deepsome & wise
with a vision like his and with stars in her eyes
takes some steps from the shadows and says
“Here is me — here I am!”, and then fearlessly
tackles whatever she can to climb over fences
and dozens of walls on which the perfectionist
recklessly scrawls his dream declarations
requirements and pleas
{in the hope there’ll be no one
who’ll meet his demands},
those words in parentheses the wise understand
Only now, to his horror, his love is so strong that
he’ll gladly put up with some things which are “wrong”! 

[pause for a laugh and a dance and a song]

So, there is the key to the homemade impasse
where perfectionists price themselves
out of the match through their doggéd refusal
to host what to them surely seems like another
imperfect dead-end [the fear they defend]
when they squander their yearn and their passion,
their lust, their true adoration, their burn and
their wonderment — all sacrificed on the altar of trust.
For if love fills those fathoms in each of their hearts
with the innocent mind of a hunter of sorts,
(and is free from the flaccid drag of ego’s ugly warts)
then there’s naught in the world that can keep them apart.

© Alan Morrison, 2017