i lost track of time
i lost count of days
i would say i'm fine
but i'm in a haze
day in and day out
i already know
how it all plays out
nowhere left to go
boredom on my mind
i can't stay in line
i can't keep this up
i just had enough
need a little change
life can't stay the same

sometimes,
my brain finds solace
on a sweet picnic table -
set up for a short tea,
on tatami mats,
in a garden with half a blanket
of pink-white blossoms
sleeping on the earth.
on such days,
my words settle into
seventeen sweet spots -
no fuss, no muss -
like schoolchildren after a field trip,
too tired and hopefully
too content
to rebel.

sometimes,
my words come to rest
as if my heart and my hands
are all weary travellers,
and i sent them to retrieve riches
that are way beyond
belonging to seventeen neat corners.
and so i apologize,
i call it laziness,
offer some food for thought,
and a warm place to rest
between the
three
simple
lines
of a haiku.

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.