i hate how i entrust everything
to future me,
only to realize that
she's also me.

The deadline monsters
Kept pounding on the door of my consciousness
Their frantic, banging fists
Threaten to reduce me
to a paralytic heap
of nothing but flesh and bones
I can hear the horrible noises
of splintering wood
Fractured humerus
The unnerving thwack
of a body
As it flung itself against
my defenses.

And yet I sit here
Serene, unperturbed
A posture of sheer pretentiousness
Ignoring the violent growls
of the monsters
In my head.

With glazed eyes
And absent-minded numbness
I watch Neflix.

So much to do.
Yet Bored.

Relaxed day.
So Tired.

Could do great things.
But Fill my day with empty acts instead.

Why.
Why can't I just be productive?

I can.
I will.
I will stop writing poetry just to fill time.
I go now to make the world a better place.
One act of intention at a time.

Will I see you there?