Monologue:  To Self, Regarding Self

So each time I write I expect perfection
thinking that my less than best should avoid detection.
Or I find some excuse to cover as excuse,
I don't have time, no product do I produce.
It's easy to expect so much to happen,
but it's hard to follow the intended plan.
Most often I fuck it up bad
or lose something that I once had.
Sometimes I forget, sometimes I chicken out,
sometimes it does no good for me to jump & shout.
Always dealing with the unexpected
usually ending up as one of the rejected.
I don't make use of the gifts I've been given
I fool myself, this is a life I am livin'.
Drink my drink, smoke my smoke,
reflect that life is just a joke,
akin to a character in the Tragedy of Hamlet.
Yet not a major character, I get not even that.
So here I suffer, the bit player,
strolling thru my days not knowing when the shoe will drop,
armed only with the knowledge that no one can make me stop.
How does this relate to my poetry writing?
Just one more battle I need to start fighting . . .