Blame it on the first angel
That set the record for perfection
Every day, I try to reach this goal
That isn’t even thereIts existence is debatable
Reliant upon faith and organized religion
Who is it that I want to be anyway?
Because once I reach perfection
There will be nothing left to achieve
I’ll be left in a purgatory of trying to maintain
Blame it on the artists, the musicians, the poets
They composed the score, now here I am
Trying to best them, get one up on them
They started with a blank slate
But I simply lie in their shadows
Looking for a shred of inspiration they might
Have thrown out in the trash
Blame it on myself because I feel the need
To compete with somebody
Even me
Never happy with the final project
Never finished editing and revising
Scouring away the art
Changing it into a science of juxtaposition
Perception, and deviation from the rule
Even this poem didn’t come from my
Imagination
It was planted here by the media
