the art of procrastination
is just that -
exactly what it says
on its faded, beaten label -
an art in itself;
a weathered process
that has divided humanity,
much like its more
celebrated
brethren - painting, dancing,
maybe even writing poetry.

the art of procrastination
makes no bones -
it is made of unequal
and ever-changing parts
of chaos and consistency,
passion and practice,
destruction and discipline,
all at once.

it is learning that
you can train yourself
to not feel fearful of
whatever doom is upon you,
but also struggling to stay
just barely afloat
when the tides of said doom
sweep you off your feet.
it is both vain strength
(to think you can outrun Time)
and smart cowardice
(to trust that you can hide from Time)

the art of procrastination
does not beat around the bush -
to master it,
you must walk on the serrations
of a double-edged dagger -
both balance
and falling beyond measure
can ruin the practice
of the oldest art
in all of existence.

So integral, this feeling
I can't make myself ignore it

The waves seep chill from off the wind
My thoughts, caught up in the current

I found the beauty in the lake
If only for a moment.

I ignored it for so long
But it's mine, just for a second

The calming wind over the lake
Caught in the skin of this horrid face

Scared and truly alone.

If I could only drift away...

We are what we are
I am what I am

Nothing but a replica
Of imagined will
For all this effort
Scrapes don't fade
On porcelain skin

The view from the top wasn't as pretty as I had hoped.
I thought this as my wishful eyes took in the industry and machinery.
Glancing at smoke stacks and warehouses and roads that led from labor to profit.

It seems we've lost what matters most.
And It seems that we don't care.
I used to see this town as acres of green.
But time has warped the view into greed and gasoline.

My time here is slipping,
in roughly two years I'll be long gone.
At the rate that were going,
I wont want to come back.

But none of this matters as I walk these crowded halls.
None of this matters as I cheat on tests.
I just live for a tomorrow.
Never for a today.

A tomorrow with one less field,
A tomorrow with one more factory,
A tomorrow with a darker sky,
A tomorrow slightly worse than yesterday.

I cant control much,
But at least I can promise,
that I will be better tomorrow,
than I am today.

This Is how we save the world.

Ever wonder what it would be like,
If the world suddenly ceased to exist?
Like a flash of light, a snap of a finger,
Gone in an instant.

Everything we’ve ever done, seen, and thought,
All in vain, like it never even occurred.

For what purpose is life, if all of humanity becomes equal in that instant?
Perhaps it is true that the only guaranteed equality in life is that of death.

I turned eighteen thinking I won't make it that far.
I'm not proud that I did because life is becoming serious.
I cannot see a future for myself beyond a grave,
I can't help but think that that's all 'm destined for.
Why do I keep lying to myself then?
clinging on to the dead hope of a better life someday
how many candles do I have to blow with closed eyes?
wishing I could rewind my youth to stargazing and parties and freedom
not looking from sidelines at what others enjoy
can I, for once, feel real change?
nothing half assed or false promises,
for I feel like my life has been getting by on that
But it's not enough anymore.

I loathe crawling into bed everyday wishing I had a life beside my own
one where I feel content and complete instead of broken and torn
my words disgust me now I'm afraid
I can't seem to get them out how I want to anymore
to tell you the truth i feel like I strayed
from the only road that led me towards expression

now I'm stuck in my head under the roof of my room
wishing my depression away with saltly tears for it is my doom.