I could do better than I do, I know;
My imperfection is a constant curse.
My follies all forever seem to grow
Leaving my virtues hidden for the worse.
I strive to be improved, yet I am not;
My every moment fills with failure's sting.
No matter how I abortively plot
I cannot seem to better anything.
Left as I am so certain of my faults
I cannot help but grieve my lack of skill;
My virtue still inevitably halts
While errors run as rampant as they will.
Yet I am not alone in this - we all
Feel our demerits, and think we are small.
No comments:
Post a Comment