"Not quite right."
"I trust my foresight"
The words of the perfectionist.
Perfection slowly creeps into procrastination.
Moments turn into hours,
Hours turn into days.
Fear of rejection before judging eyes.
Attentive eyes like an eagle,
Hands steady like the oak tree.
Totally absorbed in the craft,
Piling up several drafts.
Striving for excellence,
His own harshest critic is himself.
Looking through his narrow lens,
The alteration seemingly never ends.