They say practice makes perfect.
That one day,
That one day,
If I struggle enough,
Sweat enough,
Strain enough,
That "shining success"
will materialize,
will materialize,
Siphoning through
My pencil,
Turning the wilted,
White sheet,
Into a worthy exposition.
But is perfection attainable?
Or, am I a slave to my delusions?
Does pain only buttress
False hope?
When my wrist screams
and my fingers seize,
Am I good enough?
No.
Five frantic hours
of practice makes perfect.
A grotesque obsession,
Consuming my soul.
But my efforts go
unnoticed.
I am left hunch-backed.
My cement claws crumbling,
A glimmer now disguised
as a monster.
The imagery you used illustrated a brilliant picture of your emotions, and the way you tied it all together in the end with turning into a monster was well integrated and described.
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