"postponing" poems
P-Postponing all those things until another time
R-Rostering them for attention down the track
O-Offering all sorts of excuses stalls one's climb
C-Constantly one defers the mounting job stack
R-Repeatedly ignoring their pealing bell chimes
A-Acting upon them requires an assertive knack
S-Still one avers in responding to their rhymes
T-Taking not a step forward nor any back
I-Initiative and get in and do it isn't one's paradigm
N-Never does one heed their ever tolling clacks
A-Always sitting in an idle non moving show time
T-The day shall arrive with a great waking whack
I-Into motion one shall soon be called to climb
O-On one's toes the chores are waiting in the rack
N-No more disregarding the many sounding chimes
May 4, 2013
May 4, 2013 at 9:37 PM UTC
Now, moving in, cartons on the floor,
the radio playing to bare walls,
picture hooks left stranded
in the unsoiled squares where paintings were,
and something reminding us
this is like all other moving days;
finding the ***** ends of someone else's life,
hair fallen in the sink, a peach pit,
and burned-out matches in the corner;
things not preserved, yet never swept away
like fragments of disturbing dreams
we stumble on all day. . .
in ordering our lives, we will discard them,
scrub clean the floorboards of this our home
lest refuse from the lives we did not lead
become, in some strange, frightening way, our own.
And we have plans that will not tolerate
our fears-- a year laid out like rooms
in a new house--the dusty wine glasses
rinsed off, the vases filled, and bookshelves
sagging with heavy winter books.
Seeing the room always as it will be,
we are content to dust and wait.
We will return here from the dark and silent
streets, arms full of books and food,
anxious as we always are in winter,
and looking for the Good Life we have made.
I see myself then: tense, solemn,
in high-heeled shoes that pinch,
not basking in the light of goals fulfilled,
but looking back to now and seeing
a lazy, sunburned, sandaled girl
in a bare room, full of promise
and feeling envious.
Now we plan, postponing, pushing our lives forward
into the future--as if, when the room
contains us and all our treasured junk
we will have filled whatever gap it is
that makes us wander, discontented
from ourselves.
The room will not change:
a rug, or armchair, or new coat of paint
won't make much difference;
our eyes are fickle
but we remain the same beneath our suntans,
pale, frightened,
dreaming ourselves backward and forward in time,
dreaming our dreaming selves.
I look forward and see myself looking back.
3.8k
Ever had the feeling of being trapped in a glass box
with the air slowly running out, with every breath?
In sun, rain, snow and storm, the box gets dark or warm
but what you can do always remains the same.
Have you just simply wanted to walk away or break free?
To travel the world taming Lion cubs and petting great white sharks?
To wake up to a sunrise in a Dutch farm and watch it set over the Mediterranean sea?
To teach children in Thailand or India?
To salsa on the streets of Mexico or be blinded by the lights in Dubai?
Have you ever wanted to be border-less?
To not be punished for being born in a country
where the sun is hot and people are poor?
Have you ever just wanted to work, get a place, pay taxes,
and not ignore the growling of your stomach
so your 5 pound takeaway stretches over 3 days
postponing the date to buy the next food stock?
Have you ever wanted to check your bank account
without having your fingers crossed, because
even though you know the exact balance
you hope by some miracle it will be more?
Have you prayed for immigration to back the hell off
leaving you to make a living without risking deportation?
Have you ever got tired of playing by the rules when
the Albanian Mafia and Walmart
makes more money per hour than what you'd make in a lifetime, or two?
With heart aches and emotional games, and
attending Sunday mass becoming more of a cliché,
with rejection and doors closed,
at the cost of owning a brown passport,
with your head spinning and back against the wall,
have you wondered what life wants from you at all?
To all the women being trafficked for ***
and the children slaving away spinning Persian carpets,
tonight it's too cold to snow outside my glass box.
Inside, it's too sad to cry...
Feb 22, 2013
Feb 22, 2013 at 8:16 PM UTC
The real power of desire is doing the right thing at the right time;
It's about making a decision knowing that nobody's going to notice your good works;
There's so much negative imagery of black fatherhood in continuously postponing to do right;
You should ask yourself, “how come postponing things hasn't paid but instead it's robbed me;
How come that's not as newsworthy? Do it now.
The real power of character is doing the right thing when nobody's looking;
There are too many people who think that good things are best done under people's watch;
Make an initiative to change the way you handle matters of procrastination in your everyday life;
Then you will know that Initiative is doing the right thing without being told, and doing the best;
It's a choice, not a chance; it's an initiative not only a desire; Do it now.
It's not doubt that the biggest exam that we fail each day is discouragement test;
Does it mean that life it not always fair for people who fail the test of discouragement;
I believe in the contrary; I believe that if you keep doing things in time, you always be right;
Next to doing the right thing at the right time, is to let yourself know you are doing the right thing;
So, ethics are not necessarily to do with being law-abiding but being interested in the moral path to do it now.
Dec 4, 2013
Dec 4, 2013 at 4:06 AM UTC
awakening
torturing mind with stark perfection of a song serving as the giving mother who never did
try to hold you so close as the clouds break in rapid succession in a sweltering sky
tiptoe through lands of dreams, afraid to witness awakening to ruddy shots of possibility
postponing courage again, testing the waters proving that theories move in odd ways
rushing to bite the hand which holds out a bleeding heart in hopes of acceptance
there’s a hollow ring in the crater when shouts fall on deaf ears
but comprehension leaks fluid like organic matter from a sieve
and words are mere petals straining to hold onto the flower head
but the strands of life must persist in natural fall
among so many other things, we lose sixty hair strands each day--- why stop at reason?
lap
and with eyes closed, you place your head on my lap
and I stroke away all your cares in the hopes to soften that blistered terrain raging inside
and sagacity will wash over us and render sweet oblivion to concerns of the world
there will come in our lives, so many laps and countless hurdles
can one really place importance on which lap counts more than another?
Jan 13, 2014
Jan 13, 2014 at 5:24 AM UTC
is there noon on this comparison, and where does the stabilising hour care to fathom the giant and dwarf shadows of original shapes? if there is no magnetism of the clock's hour, minute, second, then the only magnetism apparent in the encircling of digestion / decimalisation, is to say the north of a compass, the compass' north equivalence of a clock's misdirecting eternity: of space for a clock asserting a mingling reason: the compass found it's existential reason in the north, yet the clock found it's "north" without care for magnetism, it equated the north with space, and yet what was encapsulated with rotary qualities? for clock the perpetuation of tick tock in space / for the clock treated space as a one-dimensional abstract, with its three-temporal awareness, and yet the compass said north thrice, and on the fourth said Antarctica was loosened to be explored.
i'm so tired - lifeless poetry,
make words encoded; i'm so tired,
so tiresome of other people
with bellies filled
and eyes in medium postponing,
to compass the needle
a gravity of servitude for the
clock of 12 (north), 6 (south),
and the disputed 9 (east) with
3 the (west),
darting eyes in Bahamas
for direction coarse yet coerced
by a promise, thus the compass riddling a madness
of constant stimulation with magnetism and
the magnet cursor of orbit -
wound three dimensions of time,
space optional, space always optional,
as ever time over-arching to be understood...
where then the compass, where then the clock,
if the compass led by vector of magnetism
to an uncertain place,
if the clock led by vector of missing magnetism
to a certain place of eased: tick, tock, tick, tock...
will that be equally given a wavering of
east, west, east west.... north, south...
what now?!
Mar 14, 2016
Mar 14, 2016 at 7:47 PM UTC
एक हमारा सत्य परस्पर, जो
रहस्य बन छिपा रहता है जीवन भर
This is our one mutual truth, friend,
that remains hidden a mystery all life:
खेलते रहते हैं हम, टालते,
कसरती मेहनती हैं, कसरातों
महनतों में खोए रहतें हैं हम
we are busy playing, postponing
the question, and we are workers,
we remain immersed in our
efforts and struggles all life
पर कभी कभी, कल और आज
तक का हो सकता है अंतर, कि
'मित्र' बोलने का नही मिलता अवसर
but a day comes, when the difference
is but between the morrow, and
there's no time to even call out 'friend'
आ जाता है वो बुलावा, तो
व्यूह में फस कभी
लौट नहीं पाते,
when the call comes, so caught
up we become, that return
is not an option from the maelstrom
अचानक सा वो दिन आ जाता
है जब आ सामने उभर कर
suddenly, that we have kept hidden,
comes alive emerging from shadows
ये है जो हमारा सत्य परस्पर,
रहस्य बन रहता है जो जीवन भर
This our mutual truth, that
remains hidden a mystery all life.
Feb 1, 2014
Feb 1, 2014 at 12:58 AM UTC
She was old when I first knew her
To an infant, parents are timeless;
Fairy aunts are just… old.
A tiny scarecrow of a thing,
Her eyes glittered; her mouth
Never offered an ill word of anyone.
She was a good woman. She never tired
Of talking about blind Jim – a good man –
With girlish love in her face;
One man, one love, one life
He wove wicker and filled mattresses
And listened to the wireless in the evening.
Her constant thought companion
As so many might-have-been heroes –
Gone, before I could know him.
Christmas would wend round each year,
With Meg as star guest,
Tipsy before the Queen’s Speech,
Whisky rouging her cheeks; fairy lights
Made envious by her laughter,
My mother, and hers, basking in gleelight.
I grew up there, every other Sunday,
Overlooking the Hospital and the Tay
From the safety of her living-room window,
Inventing spaceships and spies,
Dreaming of who I would be,
As my mother and Meg made small-talk.
Month by month, her daylight dimmed.
I never saw it. She was only ever her;
Happy, constant and true.

Afterwards, I learned about the
Vying accountants and surgeons,
Postponing, year and again,
The procedure. She told me, when finally
Her appointment was confirmed,
That when the cataracts were gone,
She was going to buy a ticket
For the number nine circular
And spend all day upstairs,
Just looking out of the window
At the city she’d lived in
For nigh-on ninety years
A week before the operation
Her home-help found her in bed, with Jim;
Smiling as they danced through the daisies.
She seemed no older when she died
Than when I first knew her.
A good innings, they all said.
Not enough.
If only by the length of a bus ticket –
not enough.
Feb 26, 2013
Feb 26, 2013 at 5:27 AM UTC
Guess I'll be postponing December's reconstructive surgery
There's nothing like being delayed from your own burglary
It had potential too, well maybe if it wasn't so ruthful
I'll still tentatively deem it as successful
I started to shed the lingering fatigue
I began to think of my completed protocols
Triggered the realization I need the reconstruction after all
Jul 8, 2010
Jul 8, 2010 at 10:05 AM UTC
Hundreds of those small black birds
Soaring above a golden hill
Grass dead, as they thought they were,
Laying there watching
No sound
Until the roaring
Unmistakable,
Overhead the screams
The flapping of the wings
Forcing the air once more into their lungs
Postponing yet another collapse
and they faced the breeze renewed.
Feb 25, 2013
Feb 25, 2013 at 3:59 PM UTC
self-harm
isn't always cutting
sometimes
it's ignoring your hunger
postponing your sleep
and picking at your face
every ******* time
it's listening to music
in maximum volume
pushing away your friends
and not turning on
the water heater when it's cold
but turning it on when it's hot
it is when you don't say anything
even though you're already dying
just so the people around you can live
without all the noise
Jan 19, 2017
Jan 19, 2017 at 6:33 AM UTC
you walk in
i'm standing there
spritzing lingerie
to make it reek
like high class prostitutes
do after a night
when the cash flow
is non-stop
"Hi how are you today?"
"Grumble, grrrrr, grumble."
"Can I help you find anything?"
"Well, grrrr, I want the bra, arrrggghhh, I've got on. LOOK AT IT!"
i slowly approach,
postponing the inevitable
for as long as possible
as you lift your ancient
once black, now grey, turtleneck
and release an avalanche
of layer after layer of blubber
that jiggles ever so slightly
as it is disturbed by the movement
it is covered in a thick forest
of black hairs and
i swear i see a herd of lice
scurry off as i cautiously
lift my hands to inspect
the tag laying in the depths
of the jungle that lays thick on your back
the moment i make contact
with your skin
it takes all of my willpower
not to pull away in disgust
as my fingers go
for a ride on the slip n' slide that
is your back
it feels as if you have been
bathing in Crisco since
you were just a child
as i finally grasp the
worn and stretched material
and turn it over
i'm not surprised
to find that your bra
feels as if it just went for a swim
in Onondaga Lake
mmm, sweet, sweet radioactive sweat
i fumble around looking for
any indication of a tag
as you begin to tap your
foot with no rhythm at all
and suddenly you exclaim,
"OH, I cut the tag out of this ages ago!"
and storm away back into the mall
throwing bows and ***** looks
as you go
i'm left staring
as my sweat saturated hands
thinking,
**** Victoria and her secrets."
Mar 30, 2011
Mar 30, 2011 at 10:23 AM UTC
There are rules and protocol,
movements and routine
not quite episodic and semantic--
non-declared transition and rituals,
rounded manners distinct
from infinite loop
and routed inner biplane
hemmed to a sight line,
spiraling death down.
Earth or Spitfire flare dare?
Grounded embrace forever comes.
I move, postponing
and extending.
The declared break is now.
Airflow ripples,
and eyes tear.
Straining shear forces
reducing reasoned response
to instinctual joysticks.
Old, new, modified,
learned sticky
quirks of friends,
Lost love lingering,
switching *****
adjusting yaw, pushing yoke,
subtle procedural affectations
stolen, infused in
to fly, bank, and escape.
Feb 4, 2013
Feb 4, 2013 at 6:49 PM UTC
Five o'clock
Is naked
Is harsh
Is too bright in rusty eyes
Blame the night before
For the cruel punishment
Of one more day
Is it so exhausting
To exist?
Postponing final rest
To avoid ending it.
Then again
If it was final
I'd be rushing to the finish.
Mar 21, 2013
Mar 21, 2013 at 9:59 AM UTC
I'd been trying to do something with my life,
Any ******* thing
But i've always been too easily distracted,
especially with the promise of tangible experiences,
Like the seeing of sounds and the tasting of love.
He said just come round, what's it matter anyway?
And as I could give no answer to the meaning of life,
Here i stand again.
Nineteen it is now,
Nineteen small white pills,
And they won't do much if i swallow them,
I've tried that one before.
But if i didn't know better i may well try again.
Prehaps at the end of the year,
when it will be twenty glistening childs teeth,
I could try again,
Double the dose,
Triple the dose.
Slot them into a double scoop ice cream,
Eat up all my desert,
Then allow my soul to desert my body,
Once more, on a one way flight.
I'll postpone the inevitable for now,
Its what we're all busy doing anyhow.
But i've seen more in my short life
than hollow headed women baring their *******
for just one more drink that might help forget their boredom,
And sporting young men, desperate for attention in any form it may come,
Some form of reassurance,
We're glad you're alive son, we sure are.
He sat there in an oversized jersey,
and i wished he'd let me crawl up inside it,
To sit there in his lap and cry myself to sleep,
No, No! I've had quite enough of such foolish business.
It's in the past.
But isn't it all?
The past is never really gone,
I don't trust it for a minute.
I don't trust much.
Mar 24, 2013
Mar 24, 2013 at 5:52 PM UTC
An empty coffee mug.....
Could evoke impending sadness
between you and the empty vessel,
are some private, reflective moments
It could mean,
it is time for you to stand up,
away from the coffee table
and start your daily grind
face another day in your life...
An empty coffee mug
could lead to
the end of a long exhausting day
the end of a conversation
the end of a relationship :(
Coffee is gone,
lots of things have to be done
maybe, It is time to leave an old life
old beliefs, give away old clothes, old books
some goodbyes have to be said
to old friends gone...old self, and
to old pricking, stabbing pain...
move to another house, for a new life
new opportunities, new friends
new surroundings, await
Each season segues to the next
yellow-green, brown, fuschia pink
red-orange, purple, even aqua-blue
slowly, but surely, they all turn to gray
the lovely colors of Spring,
Summer and Autumn,
become ashen...and die
but... after a while, they surely give way,
a springing of new life
could never be held at bay
.......................................
out of the coffee shop
or maybe, outside your room...just stop,
it could be a stretch from your scope of view
you are faced with the birthing of everything new
there is sun shining
for sure.....a moon rising
.........................................
An empty coffee mug
could mean,
the end of your break time
stop wallowing
quit postponing
focus back on work and
things to be prioritized
now is the time...got to move on.....
Sally
Copyright September 2015
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
Oct 10, 2015
Oct 10, 2015 at 1:14 AM UTC
Suicidal thoughts often flashed across my mind.
I might have lived and died million times.
I searched for the way to reach suicidal point
Short cut, long cut any cut to reach.
But I couldn't get one
So I just postponed it for an hour.
My thoughts went on traveling too far
But it hanged between
If, that and this.
What will happen after this?
So I went on postponing
For days, months and years.
If I announce,
I will be self imprisoned
With charges of penalty and some punishment maybe,
For keeping such thoughts with me.
It's just illegal and burnt of shame just adds another one.
If I bring into action and I am dead
I will be just buried down dead with few tears shed.
If alive after all these stunts
A severe punishment on self
And I may come into the notice of many
Ashamed and chopped I will
Be whoever sees me!
It's as good as being buried alive!
For time being everything stands Postponed!
Though the topic is too harsh and rough,
Based on reality.
Such things happens when one looses control on self.
Be in a light mood while reading this poem
As you may also love
And I request you to postponed
If such thoughts you are keeping in your mind!
Postpone it for sometime!
Just see you may find another way out
As some minute changes in our life
Can bring a lot of difference in our thoughts
I know its just easy to spell be positive
Just postpone it for time being for you aren't going to loose anything
As the life is too valuable and precious which can never be reverted back
Once dead.
Just wait and watch patiently.
Sure a sun will rise in your way as it did for me too!
©ALL RIGHTS RESERVED BY GEETHA JAYAKUMAR 2014
Geetha Jayakumar
Jan 8, 2015
Jan 8, 2015 at 11:24 AM UTC
I can only summon feelingfulness like the passing of a dove,
postponing its arrival mid-air, somewhere along the tucked
bramble across Poblacion, starting with metaphorical sensibility
or an insensibly bland space to procure wanted meaning.
Girls prefer roses and their bright foreheads diademed with more
flowers, and boys, their chiaroscuro or lack of a color thereof, seems
to be fitting in this maladroit contrast, and so I begin, as always,
with your very vague and caged memory. Your face, the whiteness
of snowcapped alps. Your strut, my slalom in a treacherous course
of words reduced to whisperings, to flutings. Your voice, though nuanced,
flitters with an overtone of arrogance: if sound was clothed, yours would
be flamboyant ermine. And the line in front of you before I, my arbitrary turn,
assimilates into a picturesque form of waiting somewhere in Cubao.
I wanted to smash myself with train-speed towards the metallic turnstile,
which, would then famish me even so, just as much as I wish to be a car crash
somewhere within the outskirts of your town, heavily vandalized by the swill
of squalor hefting itself like the rest of the world conscious of its viscera.
This is how I start you – like waiting for the sun to emerge by Borobudur,
or the clandestine *** of mildew and grass, a hundredfold of images appear
before me and I cannot choose upon my whims and caprices. Are you a dove?
A spear of Sun? A thunderous crackle of an impending rain? A harlequin?
A moseying cirrus? Or just another by-stander in the crowds where I ultimately
seek your being?
This answerlessness measures my knowledge of star, and my breath snuffed
out of me while I sigh from exhausted penchants, outweigh dissimilarities and symmetries.
A progeny from all superseding conundrums arises: are you a retrogression of a wave
back to its saltine wound, flailing in brine? Or are you just the vast sea and nothing else
on a fine and lucid day where children skip stones and chant name-callings?
I sense the peril in this undertaking, and much to my chagrin, I still
do not know how to end you.
Jan 27, 2016
Jan 27, 2016 at 3:09 AM UTC
It’s a dead man’s farm that flows row after row
A strange sick decaying crop that does not grow
But spouts stone statues and musty monuments
Digging dirt of different quantities and qualities
Slightly stiff and dark to light brown ground under
Layers of soft white light reflecting wet snow
They rip the frozen ground apart just for me
Tentatively at first then with a fiercer force
Deeper and deeper into the well of hell
The dark chamber which carries my broken shell
Those plots of stagnant crops postponing their rot
Worms inching and struggling but never piercing
Never startled nor fearing the truth that is searing
I am a planted seed never meant to grow
Potential never allowed to flow and show
Life as the cycling gift it truly is
The farm expands men multiplied by women
Children and elderly corpses cut too closely
No corn, milk, eggs, beans, bacon, wheat, or honey
Just lanes of dead men farming for nothingness
Jul 3, 2015
Jul 3, 2015 at 11:26 AM UTC
A surging, endless lamentation,
Of past mistakes created.
A shrill eternal ululation,
Never to be sedated.
Visions through a fish eyed lens,
Full of unwavering scope.
Kaleidoscopic patterns descends,
Organic structures full of hope.
As the patterns turn over and under,
Weaving themselves in delicate filigree.
Colour and shape blended asunder,
Emerges the silhouette of an ancient tree.
Bearing fruit that initiates elation,
And sweet nectar that electrifies.
Flowers bloom, ornate decoration,
A tribute to the ethereal beauty that it supplies.
Golden flavoured aromatic vapours rise,
Bioluminescence glowing grand.
Its purpose difficult to surmise,
Growing graciously tall it does stand.
Then violently the tree it does ******
Itself from its essence.
Leaving us with ourselves to trust,
In our veracious nescience.
It’s branches and leaves now just a memory.
The after taste seems so bitter,
And with it leaving a given summary,
Of our concepts that dither and flitter.
A trembling realisation.
Show me your soul and I’ll show you mine.
Torrid and flustered anticipation,
As we gaze at one another our hearts align.
Hold onto that moment,
In its singularity benign.
Postponing atonement,
Clutching on to the supposed divine.
Pragmatic paradigm shift.
From the echelons of infinity.
Negativity gently drift,
As we accept our divinity.
Feb 4, 2015
Feb 4, 2015 at 7:18 PM UTC
I know we all give up on,
Lost causes when the time's up.
But my heart keeps beating,
Knowing that we will make it through.
You could keep me honest,
You could keep me from everything,
Everything that makes me self destructive.
You could keep me from setting myself aflame.
I know that everything is messed up,
Waiting for the sound of the gong,
To dance around my head,
Keeping my heartbeat sound.
And I know I keep *******
Everything up time and time again,
But I promise I'll be here,
If only you'll be here with me.
I know I'm a mess,
I don't need the sight of,
A needle or a drop of my blood,
To tell me that.
Maybe I need a few pills,
To keep me alive,
Or maybe you'll be the,
****** I need tonight.
Maybe you're the rush,
Baby you're the rush,
I keep on postponing,
Keep on putting off the question.
But give me one more shot,
Give me one more *****
One more rush and I promise,
I'll ask for just one more each time.
Dec 31, 2014
Dec 31, 2014 at 4:48 PM UTC
Living in the middle of the beginning of the end
To much time taken
None left to spend
The shoulder devil's my guardian angels only friend
Quality of life a dying trend
Tucked into a deathbed
Then pretend to be on the mend
Bend the truth until it's a lie that you have to defend
Be yourself
See what happens then
Hang in there like the cat poster said
Only postponing the fall in the end
Forced to contend
With that of which becomes to much to comprehend
Then,
It starts all over again
Over
And over
And over again
©2024
Dec 7, 2024
Dec 7, 2024 at 5:06 PM UTC
Lately, I have been postponing
Writing about the palms of your hands.
Procrastinating thoughts written down
Concerning the color of your eyes.
In fear of looking at you in a positive light
Once more.
You see, when I dedicate verses
To the specifics of your smile.
I tend to get caught up
In feelings of attachment.
And I live with the fear
That you will leave just as easily as you came.
I suppose I will let myself cling
To every lingering thought of you.
Allow myself to ponder the rasp of your voice
In the early hours of the morning.
Allot myself time to reminisce
On the tenderness of your touch.
Slowly, I am becoming more attached;
Sticking to you like sweet honey.
Your words are half of a chainlink fence;
And mine connect with yours exclusively.
Dec 25, 2015
Dec 25, 2015 at 11:19 PM UTC
**** anxiety,
postponing my sleep and dreams.
Take me away now.
Sep 9, 2012
Sep 9, 2012 at 12:46 AM UTC
Did you hear the boom?
Then quite, calm, to tragedy.
The comings of the gloom.
I might mistake the sound of it,
the concussions are so low,
they are little, peice by peice
until the hammer drops.
Mighty us to revil in and then to shelter hide.
Is this, but of the meddling of
what we have to show.
All the workings of a peace
with no regard to then.
Yet, out so loudly do we go.
When silent did we make our voice.
The railing we suspend.
It was a bomb, that brought to heel.
The world we wish to never know
A mushroom that lights the sky.
Away, away we go.
So You and I have heard the sound,
.
A telling noise that is but brief.
The shock so imminent.
The world that's at its precipice.
And we do look away.
So decision.
Life revision or to crumbling.
That might then stop the lazy tears
and postponing of these things.
That it is always of the now,
And of our lives to cherish.
Without the foresight of the past
Is future never known.
Yet, you and I can change the land,
and keep the world we have.
Or might to burn within the sun's
Reactive gifted glow.
Nov 14, 2018
Nov 14, 2018 at 9:17 PM UTC