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.

Why is it when somebody we love does us wrong
We bundle up our pain and pass it along?
Sharing the misery doesn't make yours shrink
Just adds to the chain another link
Only multiplies the hurt you feel
Gives another the same wounds to heal
We think by gifting it to someone new
Our own suffering we'll magically undo
But really we are just inflicting pain
On an undeserving person nothing to gain
All it does is make us feel even worse
To share with another our heartbroken curse

A tap on my shoulder,
And a wink,
From you,
When you saw me walking.
All I needed,
To make sure.
Now I know.
This isn't normal.
And even though I know.
I really know you're never there.
I still spend the breaks,
On the same place
Every day.
Still hoping,
You will pass me in the hallway

i see your face in the sky
the blue color comes from your eye
the clear color from your face
i believe your name will pass
every wish to make my world fine
and the worst will be wide