Write a garden into bloom.
Write a romance in the room.
Create, create, create
Life is short; Life won’t wait.
Shift, shuffle, sort, sift
Try and try your spirits to lift.
Do whatever is not writing.
You and your inner critic always fighting.

I am scared.

twilight dances on my desk
sun rays doing pirouettes
urging me to get up
to do something
anything that’s no less
than an achievement
in and of itself
and yet I ignore
their plea and despite
the proximity
between me and
the inevitable arrival
of Cronus himself
I continue to sit
not mindlessly but
rather aimlessly
watching the sun rays
turn into romanesque
shapes and figures
at the touch of my fingers
and I wonder
about what will happen
if my actions won’t come
with a beaming certificate
for me to put up proudly
on my old and dusty
desk to proclaim
that I, myself,
have meaning

sometimes the feelings
(those lonely and somber dealings)
just make it seem like i am dreaming

the sky floats all around us
(making us look so superfluous)
and it twists around in our guts

we tell ourselves to stay strong
(not without wrong)
but really we are just stuck in a pretty song

a poem a day while my heart is away*
i should be doing work right now, you see,
i should be doing something worth the while
papers are piling up all around me
but i'm too lazy to organize/file.
i can't stop thinking of how you kissed me,
how you made my lips feel new once again,
how you held my hands and called me baby,
how you touched me by windows streaked with rain.
god was surely feeling generous
when he gave me a perfect savior with
a tongue that could never be venomous,
and candy lips like the stuff from a myth.
i feel adored, blessed, carefree, and divine
that your iridescent love is all mine

don't wait.. because it always ends up being too late.

Me and time are not good friends
Time won't bend the rules for me
Time gets mad when I don't pay attention to her
She tells me she can't control what she is

I get mad at time when she takes away my days
I hate her way I hate all her ways of doing things
The way she makes moments of pain feel like years
And the moments of joy feel like seconds

But despite all of that
Those aren't the real reasons
Why me and time are not good friends
The real reason is because

Time doesn't like my annoying friend
Procrastination
Procrastination never leaves me alone
And time gets jealous

Procrastination is with me
at this exact moment
Time got mad*

15 minutes ago it was 5:16 pm and now it's 6:50

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

It's 12:29.
I'm thinking about the moon.
It's one of those "Sufjan Stevens" nights.
His music always manages to perfectly translate my befuddling feelings and thoughts into rhythm and beat.
If I rest now I will miss out on what the night has to offer.

It's 1:07
I'm lying in bed.
I hear my mom on the phone with grandma.
They always manage to keep the conversation fresh and perpetual despite the 8,096 mile distance.
If I let my eyes close now morning and work will arrive faster.

It's 2:03
I give up on homework.
I open the laptop to watch Netflix.
I re-watch a show I've seen a dozen times.
If I escape to dreamland, this sense of knowing of what is to come will be stolen by the uncertainty of the subconscious.

It's 4:32
I'm filled with sadness.
I have procrastinated badly.
I abruptly jump out of bed and head downstairs to brew coffee.
If I go to sleep, I will regret it in the morning when I will face the consequences of my laziness and late night reasoning.

The struggle
To stay awake
Wind rattling
Whistles through a sleeping house and the
Closed door,
Your brain
Silhouetted on the wall.
Scribble furiously
The eyebrows of the shadow scrunched
Concentration.
Frustration.
Exhaustion.
"tion"
Nostalgi­a. You ponder words
Longingly.
The numbers
They flap madly about
Like confused geese
When it's warm
In January.
Reminisce
Back when it was simple
Life
Problems
Math exams
Normal, that golden
Score, gleaming.
The knowledge of perfection
Written neatly
At the top of the mountain.
Years into the future
Dreaming of reaching that summit
Once more.