Me and my Imagination,
We have this relationship where it feeds my mind with delicacies so sweet,
So tender,
Unlike anything my eyes have seen, my ears heard,
My nose smelt, my tongue tasted,
My fingers felt.


It dishes out and dishes out and yet I turn its fruits away.
—No, I say to it. I will taste of you later. I have a million and one things to do.


"Like what?" It bellows.
"What else have you to do but set eyes on these things foreign and curious I show you?"
"What else have you to do but meet these characters,
the vulpine elegant, the kind troubled,
the frenzied queen, the servant king?"

"What else have you to do than trod through melting clouds,
Traipse through deep marshes,
Trek through a city as quiet and solemn as a graveyard
and rove through a spring that collapses into a vast, vast transparent sea?"


But I—


"But what!?"
"Are you afraid of me?
Do you not like these travels?
These adventures?
These strange and peculiar wonders!?"


I do but—


"Why do you forsake me?
You trap me!"


Please! Calm dow—


"No! You deprive me!
A thousand stories I have fixed,
A thousand you have thrashed.
If not you, my genius I want the world to know.
My worlds, the world to see!
My characters, man to meet!"


I cannot—


"Enough of you!
Bile, and tar,
and poison and weeds I add to the cauldron!
Mix, mix and steer!
To sicken your thoughts and dreams, day and night, I shall!
'til cold sweat breaks upon your forehead,
and fright amaze your mind 'til pen to paper you put!"

Mountains on mountains erupt from the earth's chambers of burdened lava and collapse back into their hellish landscape just as quickly

Waves assault the beach in frenzied randomness, striking their mark upon the sand and washing it away in the same breath

Birds flail about, learning to sail the clouds while dolphins soar their vast expanse of golden sea

People in suits war with each other for ****** glory, sign a strip of paper agreeing to stop, then ignorantly carry on their violent pastiche

Far away, tucked behind his world of scattered phrases and pretentious works of art, the writer observes all this

P
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it sneaks up when you least need it to.
it blocks your every thought and causes stress.
it makes you forget all you ever knew.
it feels so right yet you know the truth.
it will only cause pain in the end.
it takes away the life you had dreamt.
all those past due assignments you must now amend
because procrastination has become your friend.

It clicks
It ticks
Away it slips
The sands fall through
The hand that grips
And every day
That you don’t do
Is one day less
That’s left for you
You’d pawn it all
To buy a cure
That can’t be bought
In any store
And every time you read this poem
You’ve lost a little more

i waited for tomorrow
because they said it wouldn’t rain
but the weathermen
is often wrong and by the time
tomorrow came
it thunderstormed all day

My neglected duties lie in a heap on the floor, my head hurts as I stare down at them. So many.
And time? Fleeting.
I receive no sympathy from time. I evoke no empathy from my own conscience, nor fantasy.
All the unspoken words I’ve neglected to voice lie gentle on the nightstand.
And I sleep sound.