• I can't fall with this burden,
    a burden that first lay bear on me,
    as a child,
    one that was forced to be an image of the world in harmony.

    I feel sick and ill,
    however,
    there will be no rest.
    I tried harder to be perfect then I should have,
    and that drive left me feeling hopeless,
    forgotten,
    my happiness,
    rotting in my chest.

    And my friends have left me,
    but they have been replaced,
    by flashes of my own enemy.

    I can't weep for the loss of them,
    I can't cry out in pain,
    For those who are perfect never do that,
    they always smile,
    even though after a while,
    that smile becomes a plastic mask,
    hiding your imperfections from the world.

    As time went on,
    I grew old and weary,
    I became insane,
    this perfect little girl,
    who raised small gardens,
    and picked roses,
    would never be the same.

    And ever though I had died,
    that perfection haunted me,
    for etched on my grave was this single sentence.
    "Never Fall From Grace."