Is there a greater feeling of melancholy than this?

To believe that one lacks, that one’s reason to exist

Is to emphasise the talent of others,

The talent in you, ruthlessly smothered.

To be imperfect was abhorrent, I thought;

A twisted lie, a status for-taught.

Yet this belief brings a whole host of troubles

The more you pursue, the more it bubbles

Into a frothy mess- stealing your vision:

Of fun and laughter in surplus, in addition

It warps your dreams into a relentless chase,

As satisfaction becomes out of place.

There is hope yet.

Suppose you wanted to write or read,

Give in to the urge, I suggest you concede

You don’t have to be perfect,

You’re already worth it,

Lest Atelophobia impede.