Needles of imperfection are made of glass.
They break into a million shards
Devouring my mind.
My skin is but a wallpaper stapled to my carcass,
Yellow, torn, and full of gaping holes.

Sometimes I wish that I was blind
For imperfection is offensive to my sight.

My visual cortex is a traitor,
It let’s the ugly in.

But how can I shut this door
When it admits the beauty also?

How can I ignore crudeness
When like an addict I crave perfection?

My eyes are gamblers.
Sometimes they loose.
Sometimes they win.

Some days I feel like I cannot play
This Russian roulette any longer.
I am no Oedipus but pain is all the same.

How can I ignore it
When every speck out of harmony,
And every shape out of proportion
Is like a needle through my brain?
Recorded in my memory forever.

Can I be cured?
What is the cure for the acuteness of perception?
Insensitivity is just as much a curse.
It makes this world an ugly place,
Which fills my eyes with sand.

It feels like chewing glass,
It feels like touching fire with my bare hands,
It feels like trying to befriend a hornet.
It hurts,
It cuts,
It aches,
It stings.

All for one moment of transcendence.
But is it worth it?