Expectations: A Slam Poem of Realization


Expectations will be the death of me.
From the first day we walked in through our elementary school doors, the rules were drilled into our heads.
We were introduced to these flat, colored popsicle sticks -- a display of our “misbehavior” each time they were flipped red.
The fear of disappointing my parents always made me behave,
Although, a fragment of me, always felt a kind of crave.
The crave to jump out of this box of already set expectations and create my own variations.
I always gave everything my best shot,
so my parents’ hard work wouldn’t be for naught.

My stress is a hurricane.
These expectations wrap me up in chains.
They tighten until I struggle to breathe, and my own goals are forced to lie beneath.
Expectations to be obedient and to always get an A.
If ‘B’ was “passing by the hair” -- a ‘C’ I could not bear.
Expectations to be pleasant to be around.
Expectations to not be a letdown.
My anxiety thunders like a hive of bees.
Because of these expectations, I am brought to my knees.
I become claustrophobic as walls hold hands in formation,
A type of fortification.
I don’t want this to be about perseverance,
Because eventually these expectations are interferences.
Interferences to my self-love because there’s always a push to the shove.
With a wealthy to withered whisper of self-worth.
I cry: These expectations will be the death of me.

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