𝗗𝗜𝗥𝗧𝗬 𝗟𝗔𝗨𝗡𝗗𝗥𝗬 ᵖʳᵒˢᵉ ᵃⁿᵈ ᵖᵒᵉᵗʳʸ

pining gracelessly

i hate wasting good paper on bad poetry, staining it with my hopeless cacographies
and i hate how i place my merit on scales that measure perfection expecting a flawless score,
i hate how i always fall short of my own discernment of the ideal
for there is not a more unrelenting judge than my riveted caliber
-an unreachable cerebral terminal.
i hate how i scrutinize every word that my extremities assemble with so much labour
and i hate how my musings are seldom adequate -lacking the desired depth i wish to drown in
with my sorrows in my pockets like stones dragging me down.
i hate hating parts of me as if they are washed-out puzzle pieces, unfitting in the great scheme of things and i hate the gratification that escorts my mediocrity, that catapults me to hubristic heights and plummets me on humbling grounds. 
but in spite of all my hatred towards my misshapen mosaic pebbles, i hate how my love is the greatest one i will ever be given unconditionally.