~
Procrastination, it's everyone's least favourite word.
Running around, doing a great many things, but
Of course not that what they were supposed to do.
College might've given you much homework,
Reading book X; chapters two, five and six,
And writing a paper of a thousand words...
So students rather start doing something else.
The house wife might have this problem too,
If cleaning isn't her favourite thing to do.
No, watching the telly is much more fun
And reading a book is also a lot easier
Than walking around the house
In a big frenzy, trying to tidy every room.
Oh, procrastination, many people use you,  
Not that they like you, no way.
~

Stand on the edge and look down ....

























It is so far down that reality blurs
into an abstract haze.

Is it solid ground,
soft verdant green
that will envelop you in its caress as you land?

Is it hard concrete that waits
to shatter-splatter you into a liquid pool?

Is it that empty eternal void
you tumble into night on night,
as you clutch at your throat,
as you gasp for that last, lingering breath?

Perhaps it is Death
that awaits you in his welcoming grasp?

Stand on the edge and look down …















The ground is giving way beneath your feet.
Your heartbeat rises to a crescendo in your chest.
You cannot breathe.
Frantically, you grab at the cloth by your neck.
Your legs are weak.
You feel the earth crumbling away.
Your eyes stare wild and wide.

A scream echoes ghastly, panicked,
reverberating around you
in a maelstrom of despair.

Is this your voice?

Stand on the edge and look down …

















only scant seconds remain.
What will you do?

Dare you step back?
Can you will your shrieking mind to comprehend, to obey?
And if you do,
are you safe?

Reach behind you,
go on, you can ....

Feel it?
The wall, rough and damp?
Touch it,
grasp at it,
your scrabbling fingers
shredded and bleeding from the sharp rock
it doesn't matter.

Find a purchase
and drag yourself towards it,
rest your clammy face against the rough-hewn stone,
caress the damp rock with your cheek,
ignore the ****** tears that course down your face,
breathe again;

Your chest heaves,
your mouth agape
drawing in draughts of cold air.
The pounding of your heart lessens.

Now close your eyes,
sleep, sleep ...

dusk's               slowly          approaching         the           world
slowly              fading           is                           day’s        light
approaching    is                  men’s                    rest           dutily
the                    day’s            rest              ­         finally        moved
world               light            dutily                    moved       around

These memories are part of me, they're wrapped around my soul,
Each sound you make is joyful but it's not me that you hold.
Time has lessened little pain from when the wounds were new,
When you left me with a void that nothing can undo.
I'm not completely bitter, happiness I do still feel,
Like when I think about the kisses you'll never get to steal.
Your hands were rough and worn, I still feel them on my skin,
As gentle as they were, the monster lived within.
At first it hardly showed, then slowly more and more,
And it didn't go away until it found what it craved for.
Before I could react, it was far too late,
The boy I thought I loved began to slip away.
I swear I tried to help, but I wasn't strong enough,
I couldn't save the boy I thought that I had loved.

I used to always write on rides like these,
Ink in hand,
Open page,
Looking out the window at the wide world,
But the world was not what I saw,

Only the images filling my mind,
I pondered and lost myself in those ideas,
Sometimes music inspired the flow,
Sometimes the hum of the car was enough,

Now the ink is neglected,
The book remains closed,
Today my raging thoughts will not see the white of the page,
They are held prisoner behind dark, shining eyes and a wall of uncertainty,

Maybe I will pick up the pen,
Hoping its feel will remind me how to empty myself,
Perhaps I will open to a new, clean page,
Hoping its emptiness will prompt me to fill it,

Taking my eyes from the window I analyze the white square,
So small,
Yet so daunting,
The pen begins to tap as I struggle,

All I see is its emptiness and I feel empty,
But I am overflowing!
I do not pour out,
Instead I feel as though stretched to contain all that is within,

Concentration seemingly out the window again,
Grey skies heighten my dreary mood,
I brood in my frustration,
I brood in my cage,

Natural as a whim,
Words crash into my mind,
I defy my problem by using it as my inspiration,
The pen moves on the page,

It is filled and complete,
A poem is born.