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?

𝐼 𝓌𝑜𝓃𝒹𝑒𝓇 𝓌𝒽𝒶𝓉 𝒾𝓉 𝓌𝑜𝓊𝓁𝒹 𝓉𝒶𝓀𝑒,
𝒻𝑜𝓇 𝓉𝒽𝑒𝓈𝑒 𝓈𝒽𝒶𝒸𝓀𝓁𝑒𝓈 𝓉𝑜 𝒷𝓇𝑒𝒶𝓀.
𝐹𝑜𝓇 𝓂𝓎 𝒹𝓇𝑒𝒶𝓂𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝓉𝑜 𝓈𝓉𝑜𝓅,
𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝓂𝓎 𝓁𝒾𝓋𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝓉𝑜 𝓈𝓉𝒶𝓇𝓉.

𝐼'𝓂 𝓌𝒾𝓈𝒽𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝓂𝓎 𝓁𝒾𝒻𝑒 𝒶𝓌𝒶𝓎,
𝒽𝑜𝓌 𝐼 𝓌𝒶𝓃𝓉 𝓉𝑜 𝒹𝑜 𝓈𝑜𝓂𝑒𝓉𝒽𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝓉𝑜𝒹𝒶𝓎,
𝐵𝓊𝓉 𝑜𝒽 𝒽𝑜𝓌 𝑒𝒶𝓈𝓎 𝓌𝒶𝒾𝓉𝒾𝓃𝑔 𝒾𝓈,
𝓌𝒶𝒾𝓉𝒾𝓃𝑔, 𝒹𝑒𝓈𝓅𝑒𝓇𝒶𝓉𝑒𝓁𝓎 𝒷𝑒𝓁𝒾𝑒𝓋𝒾𝓃𝑔.

𝒯𝒽𝒶𝓉 𝓈𝑜𝓂𝑒𝑜𝓃𝑒 𝓌𝒾𝓁𝓁 𝒸𝑜𝓂𝑒 𝓈𝒶𝓋𝑒 𝓂𝑒,
𝒽𝑒𝓁𝓅 𝓂𝑒 𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝓇𝑒𝒹𝑒𝑒𝓂 𝓂𝑒,
𝒻𝓇𝑜𝓂 𝓂𝓎𝓈𝑒𝓁𝒻,
𝒶𝓃𝒹 𝓉𝒽𝒾𝓈 𝒾𝓃𝑒𝓈𝒸𝒶𝓅𝒶𝒷𝓁𝑒 𝓇𝑒𝒶𝓁𝒾𝓉𝓎,
𝐼 𝒸𝓇𝑒𝒶𝓉𝑒𝒹 𝓉𝑜 𝓈𝓊𝒾𝓉 𝓂𝑒.