Procrastination will be the ruin of me
if this cocktail of caffeine, nicotine and time
doesn’t **** me first.

Procrastination is my most toxic trait
apart from a tendency to joke
about things I shouldn’t.

Procrastination is my favourite pastime
How else could I live for 29 years
with nothing to show for it?

Procrastination is comfortable
like a set of pyjamas
but sometimes you’ve got to get dressed.

Procrastination is sitting still
watching the world spin without you
and saying you’ll catch up later.

But later is never now.

I have procrastinated for months
To eventually write this poem today
Ironically, this time
The poem to be penned
Was meant to bring to an end
To my pet peeve of procrastination.

I thought my writing of it
Would be bring me face to face
[Oh, no. I am behind time and Procrastination is ahead of me.]

With procrastination.

i don't/can't/won't/shouldn't/ write this essay
instead i'll write poems
in procrastination
about girls that don't exist
guys that don't know i exist
unicorns i wish i was riding
holden caulfield
my brother
death and general grayness
procrastination poems
are better than my essay
writing essays are 95% procrastination and maybe 2% work
3% denial
this poem is already longer than my essay is
should i get to work or
read another article on my favourite band
or hover over the email tab
someone talk to me? no?
but music!
no good music is this a sign
minutes tick by drawing closer to midnight
my fingers have yet to fly over keys
like a reporter's with the Next Big Thing
i suppose i will sleep
and let the essay write itself

Procrastination?
What is that I've never heard of such a thing.
But maybe because I'm to busy procrastinating to hear it,
I am mike,
I am not a poet, a leader, a storyteller, or an academic,
I am a dreamer, a gamer, a man of many things,
I would rather let life pass me by and sit in my game,
Than to deal with the drama of reality.
It is not that I don't like reality,
It is that reality is too busy,
With school and work
Facebook and friends
Learning and imagining
Are they even one in the same
I love my games because it allows my mind to run wild
From building empires in Minecraft to taming creatures in Pokemon
Games are a way I can re envision my world
They allow kids to show their creative side something education removed long ago.
So I stand before you asking,
What is procrastination,
I'd rather play my game and imagine.
My life seems to pass by but in my one life span I have lived dozens of others.

Mountains on mountains erupt from the earth's chambers of burdened lava and collapse back into their hellish landscape just as quickly

Waves assault the beach in frenzied randomness, striking their mark upon the sand and washing it away in the same breath

Birds flail about, learning to sail the clouds while dolphins soar their vast expanse of golden sea

People in suits war with each other for ****** glory, sign a strip of paper agreeing to stop, then ignorantly carry on their violent pastiche

Far away, tucked behind his world of scattered phrases and pretentious works of art, the writer observes all this

P
R
O
C
R
A
S
T
I
N
A
T
I
N
G

Procrastination
Is some kind of action
Which needs no talent
Nor does it need passion
Procrastination
Time is always delayed
Meetings are always postponed
It gets nothing accomplished
Procrastination
The silent thief of time
Leaves no trace nor sign
In the end you'll fall behind

Constant procrastination draws anything closer to the brink of impossibility.

I sit here with so many thoughts going thru my head
I just want to close my eyes and go to bed.
How many times have you felt the pressures taking its toll?
And you want something concrete that you can hold.

You daydream of the way you would like things to be
But you come back to the   realities
You know that you must strive to achieve your goals
And not let anything stand in your way
But then you leave it for another day.

Procrastination is always there,
And with your thoughts the space it will share.
You say “leave it for tomorrow and a brand new day”
But tomorrow comes and it’s washed away.
These are the pressures that are taking its tolls
When you lose your control.

Don’t leave off for tomorrow what you can do today
With procrastination there’s a heavy price to pay

I sit here with so many thoughts going thru my head
I just want to close my eyes and go to bed.
How many times have you felt the pressures taking its toll?
And you want something concrete that you can hold.

You daydream of the way you would like things to be
But you come back to the   realities
You know that you must strive to achieve your goals
And not let anything stand in your way
But then you leave it for another day.

Procrastination is always there,
And with your thoughts the space it will share.
You say “leave it for tomorrow and a brand new day”
But tomorrow comes and it’s washed away.
These are the pressures that are taking its tolls
When you lose your control.

Don’t leave off for tomorrow what you can do today
With procrastination there’s a heavy price to pay

somehow,
someway
I always end up
doing the things I don't want myself to do
and regret a million things
before finally deciding
to just let it all go
and be a couch potato.
let all the assignments, homework, small little
things be due tomorrow.
it's a magical day where all the stuff
will somehow
someway
get done.
you just have to master the art of
procrastination
and everything will pile up
for tomorrow to make its magic
and finish everything.

The path lies right in front of me
clear of obstacles and paved quite nicely
Yet
I hesitate to walk on it, until I absolutely have to
Why?
I avoid the path that if traveled
Leads me, gets me closer to my goals
But still
I stray away from it
Preffering to stay where I am
Where mostly
I just find
exactly what was here yesterday

I'll write this tomorrow

Stress everywhere
Comprised of work and worry
It creeps; lurking
Until i walk to close
Striking rapidly
Slicing the air as it moves
Frantically startling my Heart

It's noisome stench lingers
Infecting the atmosphere
Not allowing itself to be forgotten
It intrude my nostrils
Implanting itself on my brain
Yet I still reject it

Procrastination and I skip happily
Through a green garden that slowly withers
Knowing that time runs out
I wait anxiously for my responsibilities
To run to me
Saying time is almost up
Then I try to do the impossible
Foolishly and disorderly
Rushing to finish tasks
As my responsibilities frown at me
Their disappointing faces haunt me
Drowning out the disappointment I have for myself
Then they slowly walk away
Knowing fully well that
I can not finish them all
Then the pace slows
And I become lackadaisical
Knowing that it is over
I had failed myself
The overwhelming defeat consumes my emotions
I weep without a friend
But then someone emerges from the shadows
Its procrastination
Coming to hug me
Wiping away my tears
I love you
My old friend

What I’ve Learned as a Writer
By Leo Babauta

I’ve been a professional writer since I was 17: so nearly 24 years now. I’ve made my living with words, and have written a lot of them — more than 10 million (though many of them were duplicates).

That means I’ve made a ton of errors. Lots of typos. Lots of bad writing.

Being a writer means I’ve failed a lot, and learned a few things in the process.

Now, some of you may be aspiring writers (or writers looking for inspiration from a colleague). Others might not ever want to be a writer, but you should still care about writing. I’ll tell you why: it’s an incredible tool for learning about yourself. And if you’re an effective writer, you’re an effective communicator, thinker, salesperson, businessperson, persuader.

So for anyone interested in writing, I’d love to share what I’ve learned so far.

    Write every **** day. Yes, even weekends. Yes, even when you’re busy with other crap. Each day I write a blog post, an article for Sea Change, part of my new book, or perhaps part of a novel. If I don’t have enough to write every day, I start a new writing project. I write at least 1,000 words a day, but you don’t have to write that much. Writing daily makes it a routine thing, so you never have to think about it. You just do it. It gets much easier, less intimidating. You get better at it. It’s like talking with a friend: just how you express yourself.
    Create a blog if you don’t have one. Whether or not you’re a writer, you should have a blog. Why? Because it’s a great way to reach an audience, to practice writing on a daily basis, to reflect on what you’ve been learning, to share that with others so they might benefit, to engage in a wider conversation, to learn about yourself. Anyone who wants to learn about themselves should have a blog. (Protip: Try Sett to start a blog — it’s a great way to grow an audience and community.)
    Write plainly. I think this is from Strunk & White, but it works well for me. I write in plain language, leaving the flowery stuff for others. Academic writing is the worst — it’s so stilted no one wants to read it unless they want to show others how smart they are. Technical jargon, business-speak, pretentious vocabulary, insider acronyms … none of them have any place in communicating with your fellow human beings. Only use those things if you want to hide the fact that you don’t know what you’re talking about.
    Don’t write just to hear yourself talk. Lots of people like to go on and on about themselves and their lives, but readers don’t come for that. Readers come for their own purposes. You’re reading this to get ideas for yourself as a writer, not to hear the life story of Leo the amazing writer in technicolor detail. Now, you can tell stories about yourself if they’re vividly entertaining or inspirational or really instructive. But have a purpose, and be sure you’re meeting that purpose. Don’t just ramble.
    Nearly everything can be shortened. Including this post, of course. I could probably cut 25% of this post and get away with it (I’ve already cut 25%). Go through your sentences and ask: is this necessary? What purpose does it serve? How would this read without it? And if you can, drop it. It makes your work more readable, clearer.
    Fear stops most potential writers. Most people don’t write (publicly at least) because they’re afraid their writing will ****. Well, it will. Everyone ***** at first. You don’t get better at something by sitting on your hands. **** it up, put yourself out there. You won’t have many readers at first, when you ****, but as your audience grows so will your skills.
    Read regularly for inspiration. I might write more than 1,000 words a day, but I read 10 times that. I read books and (online) magazines and blogs and more. Reading gives me ideas, shows me better ways to write, gives me access to the best teachers in my craft (amazing writers).
    Procrastination is your friend. Every writer lives daily with procrastination. If you allow yourself to feel guilty about that, then you’ll feel bad about yourself as a writer. Instead, embrace your procrastination as a friend, enjoy it … and then ask the friend to leave for awhile so you can get your work done. No friend should monopolize all your time. Get your writing done, then invite the friend back when you have free time.
    Have people expect your writing. This is another reason blogs are fantastic: if you build up an audience, you feel the pressure of their expectations. This pressure is a good thing — it keeps procrastination from taking over your life. You know the audience expects you to write, so you get off your **** and you do it. Before I had a blog, my editors were the people expecting my writing.
    Email is an excuse. We often go to check email because it feels productive (and it can be), but it’s easy to use that as a way to put off the writing. Honestly, if you close your email for a couple hours, nothing bad will happen. Close it, close everything else, and get to writing. Your email will be waiting for you when you’re done.
    Writing tools don’t matter. Most people tinker with their writing tools, trying to find the perfect system. ***** that. You can write with anything, as long as you have a keyboard. Yes, I much prefer typing to writing by hand, because I’m much faster at typing. I can get the words out closer to the speed of my thinking. But what writing program I use is irrelevant: I write in TextEdit, Sublime Text, Ommwriter, Byword, Notational Velocity, in the WordPress or Sett editor in the browser, in Google Docs. Just open up a new document and start writing.
    Jealousy is idiotic. Writers can often be insecure types — perhaps it’s a byproduct of putting your soul out in the world for all to criticize. So they’re often jealous of the success of other writers. That’s a complete waste of time and energy. It does you no good as a writer. Instead, learn from the success of others, see what’s good about you, and merge the two. Be happy for people. It’ll make you happier too.
    Writing can change lives. When I publish a post, I hope it’ll be of use to someone. But the responses I get are often incredible — people tell me how much a post or my blog in general has changed their lives. I’m blown away by this. When you put something with good intention out in the world, you have no idea what kind of impact it might have on others. It might do nothing, but it could have a profound effect on someone’s life. That’s truly powerful. That’s truly a reason to get up and write.

And one thing I’ve learned, above all, is this: the life that my writing has changed more than any other is my own. Writing for you has changed me, in ways I am only beginning to grasp. In wonderful, crazy, lift-you-off-the-ground kind of ways. And that makes me want to do it forever.

I get more work done
when I'm avoiding other work

PROCRASTINATION
By
Joe McDonald

Part I:

How often can I keep putting off everything in life that must be done to the point of frustration and despair?  

How often will my work sit and stare at me with the eyes of hungry children always whining their demands for my attention to each task always wanting my full being beyond my own inner abilities and doubt?

How often can I walk past the damaged concrete step on my own house that sneers at me everyday as I walk up to my front door?

How often can I make promises to old friends to get together, celebrate life, and not expect them to wait on my return call of cancelation because of illusionary diseases?

How often can I feign in my backyard the beauty of my roses, sipping white grape while the grass under my bare feet remains brown, coarse, and over grown with dandelions stifling all vegetation?

How often can I pledge my good faith to a worthy cause by ending up watching from the back row as the needs prosper or fail regardless of my lack of motivation?

How often will constant kicking of the can down the yellow brick road be considered the excellence of a long line of Shakespearean resumes?

How often will my lack of courage blind me to opportunities of abundance and force my family to a life of stagnant economic asperity?

How often will I consent to others disrespect of my mastery of skills to the verge of closing my mind to all that is important to dwell in a soup of anger, self-doubts, and ache?

How often will the peeling paint, blistering off of my house like shards of cheese at my wedding feast, augment my anguished indifference finding every physical, spiritual, and any other of a multitude  of “…Why not’s…” festering in my dome of “..Do it tomorrow’s…”?

How often can I rattle my saber of position, roar my battle cry of “Tomorrow” to postpone today’s tasks? Bundling them all into neat piles of future promise completions. All the time smiling a grin of a used car salesman.


How often can I sit on my couch on sunny Saturday mornings enjoying the sun rise? Its beams slowly sliding across the finished oak; warming my unkempt hovel to the boiling point that tuffs of unwanted cat fur dancing over the varnished grain like tumbleweeds in a Sam Pechinpah film. Yet, I sip my morning brew, acknowledging their existence but, my head movies are of other unattended illusions.

How often can my inability to act or respond be accepted by those who expect perfection in all things?

How often can I permit the disappointment of a moment fire the indifference toward the needs of the here and now?

How often will my journey up my front walk be changed from the joy of daffodils and hyacinths filling the air with aromas of lung cleansing delights only to rediscover the pine foliage  are still dressed in the lights of Christmas past?

How often will I put off leading because of failure of seeing the needs of those who need leadership? They cry out for direction but, plead for independence. I use the pleas to drown out the cries.

How often will I have the epiphany of a lifetime only to have inaction and fear
drag it down to the bowels of an enlighten brain ****?



Part II:

I keep plugging in the mechanism of delay to power the animal of the moment.

I blind myself over and over and over and over again again again again to my abilities of now in favor of promises of later.

I smell success in the air every time I do the nows but, the stench of celebration’s to come is easer, sweater, more in line with who I am and not who I want to be.

I hear the praise and accolades of present victories and in time I’ll drag my triumphs out over the gravel road of time until they have lost their luster.

I’ll blindly stare at the tube of adult babysitting, at images of various eye candies trying to escape my own drive to do and yet failing in this as well.

I can’t spit out the bitter taste of the act of putting everything off nor drown it in the wine of determination without repeated reminder that I am drinking from the same cup of vintage to come.

I spend much needed dollars and valued hours gorging myself on self-help aids and assistance. Only they too become part of the beast’s feast of my misused time.

I awake every Monday with dreams of a new but, I’m so accessible to countless distractions. By Friday I face the inevitable doom of looking back over the landscape of a week gone up in the flames of the undone.

I try to grab each day by its throat. Choke out the desired results. Only it offers the slights resistance and I let it go to torment me from its lair growling “…not now, not now, not now…”

I’ll spend time with my mate for life. Half of me is relishing the moments with her. Half is wandering over the tablets of what I haven’t done.

I have mismanaged, misused, balled up, blundered, fouled up, mishandled, muddled, muffed, spoiled, and fumbled the footballs of my life again and again avoiding all that has to be done now driven farther down the boulevard. Constantly stopping at any insignificant store front; staring at juvenile trinkets of distraction.

I have sinned over and over again. I offer prayers to anyone who will listen. Begging for the enlightenment to solve my weakness. “… quia pecccavi nimis cogitatione verbo et in cogitations, et in hoc opera, quod ego facere non, mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa…”



Part III:

Who else do I have to make suffer in confused patience waiting for the promised end results of my superficial excellence?

What has to be done to make me arise from the ash of self doubt, indecision, and fear to conquer this demon within my psyche?

Where are the answers I seek in my time of apathy?

Why has this inferior deity have such a grasp on me?

When! Again, when!!! When will I face this issue and start to find the peace of timely attainment?






(“… that I have sinned through my own fault in my thoughts and my words, in what I have done and what I have failed to do, through my fault, through my fault, through my most grievous fault…”)
Part IV:

I have lived with this for over a half century.
Trying to climb out of the hole of misused time.
Falling back into my penitentiary.
Serving a sentence of intimate crime.


The venting is complete, pity-pats written down.
My confession exposed for all to share, witness.
If this public sacrament exposes me a clown.
Mock away; have your jest. For I could care less.


My Ginsberg rant is to open doors of avowals.
To aid in my cure; in hope start my salvation.
To trust myself; to believe in oneself. I am all.
To look into the morning glass willing a reincarnation.


Only I can face the beast and make it heel.
Down inside I have to find the straight for each day.
Try a new, lighter approach; a new Don Marquis feel.
“…procrastination is the art of keeping up with yesterday…”




April 2014

Oh, procrastination,
thy cruel mistress.
as devoted to the, as I may be...
You, are no good for me.

Oh, how your presence draws me,
Pulling me in, without hesitation.
like a tension, you steer me astray,
with the simple way you stay.
I just, can't get away.

my sense of timing is highly sophisticated
i can sense exactly how much time a task will take
i will start it when i have
exactly
that much time
left

I open the door

And walk In 

And sit

And forget

To write,

I look outside the windows

My thoughts collide

And a battle ensues 

I look at my broken typewriter 

And my broken mind 

And those broken thoughts

I’m just thinking.

Did I write what I had to? Or was it just another round of procrastination.

Procrastination
In
Isolation
Is
How I play the game

If you can't
See
Then I can
Be
Lazy without blame

When I'm on my
Own
I'm in my
Zone
By myself I will play

Without you
Here
Without you
Dear
It's  a contemplation day

~
Procrastination, it's everyone's least favourite word.
Running around, doing a great many things, but
Of course not that what they were supposed to do.
College might've given you much homework,
Reading book X; chapters two, five and six,
And writing a paper of a thousand words...
So students rather start doing something else.
The house wife might have this problem too,
If cleaning isn't her favourite thing to do.
No, watching the telly is much more fun
And reading a book is also a lot easier
Than walking around the house
In a big frenzy, trying to tidy every room.
Oh, procrastination, many people use you,  
Not that they like you, no way.
~

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.

I am the queen of what ifs
Sitting on a throne of could've beens

My fears are my loyal subjects
Escorting my dreams to the gallows

My ambitions are now prisoners
To my court of procrastination

I, the queen
Reign over all of this regret

Fatherless Child
Brittny Shaffer

Life hurts
Emotions hidden deep down in the dirt
Your not sure which direction to go in
There's to much confusion, you have no time because your life is thin
Trying to walk right but your on the path of sin
No feelings of your own being self centered just within
I always had a vision in mind
When I grow up I want to be just like my father
Hoping that he become the next African American doctor
My dream was that he'd become something powerful and he showed he cared
But my deepest fear was that he'd never be there
But who am I to say
Everything does not go right
Everything is not fair
Because with the power of God only thing you have to do is decree and declare
I wish my father would've realized
He had a purpose that he was not placed on this earth to get chastised
When i look out of the window
There is something that I see
A father not caring about his child he didn't believe
What was it about me that you didn't want to receive
Why was it that your hopes was always in the streets
Did you ever look back to say I have a child who is in need
Or was your focus on woman who didn't put fourth  good deeds
But DAD you loved them over me
Strangers came first they was people that you pleased
Your family was a meaning fairytale
It was make belief
I paint the picture I have an image
You took life as a game and not as a privilege
You was in your own world
You had your own village
Not even concerned
The devil had you he was in control
Had you in the streets doing a daily role
Stealing
Dope dealing
Got you locked up
and you said that it was wrong
But never thought about me you left me at home on my own
No food, no shelter, no comfort all alone
Your game was just a cattle to **** it was so strong
Before time your life was over it was gone
I remember the time I saw you on your death bed about to die
You held your hand out and said ill make it don't drop a tear don't cry
But you never realized the pain I went through because of your lies
The hurt I carried with me because you never tried
I lived 16 years no father a long ride
A father concerned only about him full of pride
Where was the love that needed to be supplied
Where was the hope that I put in to be prescribed
But people
Im here to share a message with all of the fathers
We as people need to rise up and set a standard as a generation
Become more of a father hood for kids all around the nation.
Its never to late stop with the procrastination
ALL aboard join the father hood station
We shouldn't be built of frustration
Fathers should be a role model to daughters and sons to say I strive for determination
Im tired of seeing children suffer due to separation
Fight for what you love, fight for your children
Having them apart of your life should never be a hesitation
They should be # 1! Make that your expectation
Looking for a father who never look back to get me
But on his way out said baby please forgive me
Father why
You only want me in your life because your about to die
Now I should walk out of the room and  just say GOODBYE
When i needed you DADDY COME HOME DADDY WHERE ARE YOU DADDY FATHER never got a reply
We as children shouldn't have to wonder if our fathers could be a rely
Free at last free at last thank GOD almighty were free at last
But where are our fathers
No new outfits, no new shoes
  Fathers are Found as killers now on the news
I just wanted you in my life
Me as your daughter why couldn't you make that sacrifice
FATHERS your daughters need you
FATHERS your sons need you
They need that fatherly advice
If I could get one wish
It would be for my father to hug me and give me that one big kiss
My fathers coming back he didn't forget about me
For all the fathers out there who abandon there children
FIX IT NOW let that be your fulfillment
We are all meant to shine as most of us do
But we as children don't deserve to be hurt and go through
SO change take action make your children happy and experience something NEW
Im out make sure you be about that positive life

Be Blessed

Last minute has come

I am thinking here again

Why do I do this?

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

Went to the County Fair today,
I have always liked to go,
So many animals,
and things to see,
It's truly quite a show.

The Carnival Games are fun,
But certainly never free,
Most are surely rigged,
You hardly ever succeed.

There are Side Shows galore,
Some bring, right out in the open
******* clad young women for
perusal, to tease men into arousal.
But you need to pay to go inside,
To get a better peek.

Best of all though, for me,
Is the vast array of Junk Food,
Right there on display,
for everyone to see.
Forbidden none healthy stuff,
that the rest of the year,
I never get to eat.

While walking around,
The sights and the sounds,
of these many prohibited treats,
Their enticing smells do so delight,
That my stomach begins to growl.

It does not help, that huge colorfull,
signs, on each food stalls does adorn,
Advertising it's tantalizing offerings,
making them all the harder to ignore.

The combination of these deeds,
of visual, and nose sensory sensations,
Can doubtless render this person,
incredibly weak in the knees.

Next up jumps a big dilemma,
Which one thing should it be?
Pop Corn, with lots of salt and  butter,
Better yet, that fresh corn on the cobb
I see.

Look over there, Oh MY!
It's fried dough Elephant Ears, I spy,
Sprinkled with honey and cinnamon,
I seldom, almost never pass them by.

Oh YES, Bright Red Candy Apples!
A boyhood favorite of mine,
and a sure win.
An apple a day, they say,
Keeps the Doctor away,
The candy is just there for a grin.

Fried Chirreo's and Corn Dogs on a stick,
Both I could do, making that combination,
a bona fide Hat Trick.

Nachos dripping with melted cheese,
Oh sure, that's bound to please.

Pulled Pork on a bun would be kind of fun,
But the Barbeque Sauce gives me gas.

One that I'd almost forgotten,
How 'bout Candy Cotton?
A marvelous Incantation,
Sugar dropped into a machine's
whirring vat, spun like magic,  
Puff, just like that.
No slight of hand required.
Really quite a sweet sensation.

I've spent now over an hour,
Just wandering all around,
Looking at the stalls and signs.
And yet,
Still can't make up my mind.

Racked with indecision,
This perplexing dilemma,
Rests with no other person,
This one is all about me.
Yet another half hour,
from the clock has expired,
and still no decision is rendered.

The day is ending,
it's nearly Six,
Not long 'till Supper Time.
Before I left home,
My wife did inform,
"It's *** Roast tonight,
your favorite,
Make sure you're here by seven!"

With a certain hesitation,
And twinge of remorse,
Disappointment etched on my face,
I turn listlessly towards my car,
With slow pace resignation,
Still pondering all those treats,
I might have had,
If it weren't for my procrastination.

Decision making,
I've been slow to admit,
Has never been my forte.

Well perhaps, No for sure.
Maybe, I'll probably come back.
Tomorrow, or even the next day.
It could, or might possibly be,
That by then, I will have thought,
this all through,
And come to some decision.

We've both been through a lot lately,
Enough that we make the most
of distractions that present themselves.
I don't like to sit down and study
How a signal from your brain,
Reaches receptors in your toes;
Or how a muscle twitches.
And you don't like to be alone.

It's been our tradition,
The three of us,
Since we were about fifteen,
To modify our bodies;
(read: mutilate).
We pierce and ink ourselves.

You got your jumping Koi
When you were fifteen
Still in high school.

We got our ******* pierced in the last year of school,
Bored with the idea of maths or science
We wanted something interesting,
And that's what we came up with.

You came back to school
And couldn't stop showing people,
Even when they didn't want to see.

We all got our animals together,
My cicada, your frog, your bird,
The leaver's dinner for school was that night.
We were still rebels.

Then uni last year,
Two quotes in braille around our ribs,
And your quote in Latin
(which turned out to be Italian)
"No lies, just love."

Now today,
A new cat on my arm
And a rose on the back of your neck.

We are perfect,
Immaculate.

Procrastination at it's finest.

Late nights spent in the depths of the Gita,
Self realization nipping at my boot heals.
Reading the lines of a gone, but not forgotten,
Gay poet, shedding a tear to his epitaph.
Death always sinks its teeth in deep,
Deep into the bowels of the subconscious,
Twisting and writhing through long
Dead emotions, finally expiring its final breath
Through the sinus cavity and out the eyes.

Breakfast is no longer held in the morning,
But far beyond dawn’s reach in the late afternoon,
Much needed sleep is pushed off until
The last minute.
God bless procrastination.
God bless my body, soul, consciousness,
And mind.
God bless those ravaged by war and hate.
Trailing after sunset for that one great fix,
No escape for the ones within its grasp.

Naked we lay in bed,
Until the noon sun kisses our cheeks.
Naked we lay in our hearts, bodies,
Souls, and spirits.
Naked is the man who looks himself in the mirror,
Only to find a corpse in the hollowed eyes that
Sleep deprivation has left him.

Overheated and lost in ill-repaired pipes
At midnight,
Loneliness creeps in like a spy to my senses.
The great manifesto has seeped its way into my brain
And retired in the retinas of self-loathing.

Unforgiving poisons course through the veins.
Strobe lights dim the senses,
People in slow movements of black and white.
Paying our debt,
Debt that is owed to our maker
From the dawn of time to the ravaged streets
Of a morally degraded and ignorant,
Politically correct World.



Dance with me tonight.
Dance in the streets with joy and madness.
Dance with tumorous disease.
Dance with the *****'s cry.
Dance with the sodomite’s urge.
Dance with the looming shadows.
Dance with the bigots and the profiteers.
Dance with me, because we are free.