I waste so much time
My brain left on idle
No parties or fine wine
This waste is suicidal

The death of productivity
The death of all ambition
My time spent in passivity
Hating my lack of volition

Hating this immovable fear
The terror of abject failure
Screams "wait another year!"
And that terror is my tailor

For it crafts my every endeavor
I am not lazy nor am I weak
But the future is the bearer
And the harbinger of defeat