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This is Meloetta 's Poetrydex entry.

The Curse of PerfectionEdit

A voice that brings life,
A song to change poses,
A dance so unique,
As to ruin all roses.

And though I enjoy,
The happiness I spread,
Or the respectful Nocturne,
Sung for the dead.

I can't help but feel,
After song after song,
As if I'm unneeded.
I'm sure I'm not wrong.

Because my voice is perfect,
You'd love it always,
No room for improvement,
Most everyone says.

But are you aware-
Of how monotony can kill.
Every performance identical.
There's simply nothing to thrill.

And as my sorrow seeps,
Into supposedly joyous melodies,
Nobody even seems to notice,
Is it my voice, rather than me?

Does it so ensnare,
The hearts of all that are near,
That though they applaud-
They do not truly hear?

My dances, are they movements-
Or illusions cast?
Am I a talentless fool-
A hack to the last-

But cursed with the form,
That attracts nothing but praise.
But love for another,
Not for me, this is the case.

Whatever in me that enthrals,
Is what holds all their attention.
I will fade and wither and de.
It will be gifted unending recollection.
This, the curse of unending perfection.

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