Pyschological Trait

Perfectionism ruins me.
The way every fault cuts like a knife,
while it should only scrape.

The way it angers me to blame myself,
as blaming others is no answer.

I'm lost, helpless within,
not enough to show yet,
only to be pathetic in my expression.

Mind is racing, without a pause,
paralyzing, sending into passive panic.

Nothing gets done, nothing is let go of.
Four walls, barely light to shine,
as eyes sting, but not enough.

Dying down into a passive state,
sleepy, depressive, resigned one.

The emotions build more so,
give it a day, give it a week.
Then eruption breaks my breath.

But yet, most of the cries stay unheard,
echo between the four secure walls.

Let it out, scramble for purchase,
until nothing is left but air,
filling the emptiness within.

Then let it start again,
without a trace of faulty composure expressed.

Let perfection ruin me.