Laziness will eat
the meat off my bones.
Laziness is crawling through
my rotting muscles
like white worms
riddled with disease.
The first symptoms are the excuses
the tiredness, the lack of time,
the difficulty, the lack of resources.
The second larger symptom
is the procrastination,
the stale, rotten stench
of something bad in a room
which hasn't been aired out
in weeks.
Until the third symptom kicks in
and you are glued immobile,
in a deadly pose that never changes,
because change seems impossible.
At the second stage, any beginning,
any progress seems unimportant, futile,
just like the bouquet's plea for life
in the dusty vase,
with the contaminated yellow water.
And at the terminal stage,
you become your worst fear,
the harshest critic,
the biggest enemy,
the most passive and lukewarm
and afraid you can be.
And I, the melting corpse
am now laying in bed,
one eye open and staring,
at the papers which have stacked up,
and I'm not sure if I am awake,
or this is all a dreadful nightmare.