It’s not that you don’t get me,
I fear you nearly do.
It’s not that you don’t get my quirks,
You’re full of your own too.
It’s not that you sometimes annoy me;
Your voice is as irritating as a rash spreading across my skin.
It’s not that you sometimes exasperate the very essence of my soul;
Your incessant need to be right often has my patience more than thin.
It’s more that you appear to have everything under control;
You’re perceived as whole, absolutely.
It’s more that you appear completely happy with yourself;
You’re self-satisfied smirk almost kills me.
But to be honest, it’s mostly that I see you as perfect in almost every way... while in comparison every element of my own life appears to be in utter disarray.