She ran out of track a mile back,
but she’s still running; she still thinks it’s a race.
She doesn’t realize there’s no prize.
She’s still running; she still thinks there’s a first place.
If she’s going to try, she aims high.
She keeps pushing; she keeps setting new goals.
The only direction is perfection,
so she keeps pushing, keeps in complete control.
When a chance asks her to dance,
she’s not sleeping; she’s harvesting crops.
Even when she’s dead tired in bed,
she’s not sleeping; it never stops.
If her world starts coming unfurled
she’ll be burning, welding the shreds into one.
She’ll end her days in a fiery blaze,
she’ll be burning. She’ll burn out like the sun.
This poem wasn't written about anyone in particular, I just wanted to play with rhymes.
Photo by the Yohkoh solar observatory, 1991
How much do you stress over making things perfect?