f*ck expectations

sometimes when you do a thing
you become known for that thing
and that thing eclipses the you who does it
then you can be trapped in being a paragon of that thing

and this thing
that you probably loved
that you had a passion for
that maybe even set you free
becomes
a strangler vine
wrapped around
your soul

all its beauty
crushed under the
weight of expectations of
perfection and endless continuation
relentlessly being and doing the thing
with no space to breathe
and no space to
evolve this thing
that must
continue
unaltered
stagnant
dying

because expectations
because rigid expectations
because bloody expectations

fuck expectations

disentangle

make love to the thing
until it flowers into
the next thing
until you’re known for
your unbound passion
and the things
become
paragons
of you

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