Just as painters live for their artwork, poets live for theirs. But for a writer it is more so. For a writer, the writing will take on not only a life of their own, but a personality, a whole separate soul. A writer can converse with their pieces, argue with them... Feel jealous of them. Sometimes you might tell him his words are beautiful, and you'll see a shadow briefly cross his face before he responds with a 'thank you' and a smile, stretched too tight. Eventually, he'll become angry at his work. He'll stop writing; he'll tear up old notebooks in the hopes he can forget the words seemingly printed across the inside of his skull. He'll snap all his pens and pencils, so they can never damage someone's life as they have damaged his. He'll drink so the letters dance blurrily before his eyes, phrases drop off and lay forever incomplete in the dirt - so he never has to be the one to write them down.
All this, just because he knows he can never be as beautiful as the words he writes.