I could make this rhyme
I could make it styled and fit to a timed
Beat, but that would defeat the purpose 
It wouldn't be worth it to focus just on the surface.
Because I've got a message that will astound
No matter how the words begin to sound
See, I always want to make things "perfect"
Aiming for "oohs" and "ahhs" like a three-ringed circus
Working my fingers to the bone, its like a nervous
Tick. I can't seem to stop doing this bit
A lifelong strive to be Mr. Perfect.
I envy the man that can speed through life
Putting in half the effort, feeling half the strife
As I do. I bend over backwards 
Yet it never really matters.
So why do I do continue? No matter the venue
I always end up blackened and blued
By my own insecurities. 
See, this desire is a curse
Put on a man who sees average as worst.
I can't stop this addiction to my perfecting mission
No matter the condition of my self-vision.
I can't see myself ever being less than 100 percent
The worse part is, I feel I can do better than that.
I am sick. I am diseased.
But this is just me.
How can I ever be free?