Coming Farther Away

I'm no advocate for complacency,
but I despise perfection.
I want whats real
no distorted reflection,
it feels like perfection
with such a connection
that it leaves a small section
of my stomach
to churn.
when will I learn?
what will I see?
not this distorted reflection
of me
is he?
the one for complacency?
it takes the place of me,
sometimes.
a pedestal too high,
a tear not to cry
when the apple of his eye
is too big to fill.
a little pill,
a little drug,
a little stain
under the rug,
in my brain,
the lack of pain!
can't put my finger on it,
a love so platonic
how ironic.
what a waste,
of happiness,
space.
the good times are killing me.