Expectation is the enemy of perfection,
A natural expression of idle curiosity.
And I have felt that need **** me years ago,
For I am a poet, as a poet I am known.

And this carries with it a certain expectation,
Which over the years has slowly grown,
That my writing should progress into perfection,
And so, is no longer my own.

And there, a poet slowly dies. Crushed under the weight of their own self-criticism. The world has robbed them of a free-moving pen, by way of expectation.

The death of such a spirit, is both subtle and moving. A nexus for emotion sapped and stomped out to the beat of life, until there is nothing left but embers, and the words which can be gleaned from a heart weighed down by expectation.