Procrastination,
My fair lady,
Why must you compel me
To worship you
When I have so many and so urgent things to do?
Fine. So maybe it is not your fault.
So I'm just lazy. Okay.
But you are so tempting.
Lulling me away
from so many chores
(Or a death by boredom - who can really tell?)
Sometimes you offer me the prettiest of pictures,
Sometimes the funniest of videos,
Other times merely my bed and the ceiling,
But more often books.
Beautiful, beutiful books.
So why should I scold you
For taking my time
When those are the hours
I most lovely spent?

Give me rest.
The kind of slumber
that toddlers protest during naptime
but succumb to with a stream of drool
on their rested faces;
the kind of slumber
that enables my grandmother
to nap in a rocking chair
with a book teetering on the edge of her lap,
the sort of sleep
that wakes me up
an hour before the morning trumpets blast;

give me that,

because I'm tired
of the sheets clutching on to me
like handcuffs
engraved on criminal wrists.

Nosey people annoy me
Pompous people bore me,
Pretentious people irritate me
Whilst drunk people irrigate me.
Opinionated people grate me,
Cheating people forsake me.
Sly people irk me
Lazy people shirk me.
Judgemental people cast me,
Bigoted people blast me.
Most people avoid me!

There are the two choices. Wicked, wheel-men curving towards that which I wear in the evening when I paint on my black suit. The pitter-patter of organic matter, the Metropolis ground fresh. You tell me raspberry, I tell you I am not impressed. And then from the inimical lips, those bards from distance, sand spots and hordes of watering holes I place fresh Republicans on- and they were stealing the magazines.

Jury on.

Four devils they figure some, four devils. A anthelmintic potion to square away the worms. The pink worm, who takes long-distance telephone calls on your roommates only moments before the red worm, his head shriveled and his limbs crying from ******, she the blue curly worm; she is what we've been looking out and everything about this evening has slipped in the pattern we expected. Red light in fact,

They used the concatenations of frog legs(this was the big deal since My Mother loved the chelura of some tropical varieties of frogs and funny-legged), banjax the first one before the weather catches the summary being the news. Going as far as the the ecstasy of officials leaving the scene. The species catching its last names of life- genus and family alike racing towards safety.

And so I build in the fly zone. I haggle for President, and make sacred the realms of figures; denaturalized are the entanglements of humans, even whatever the mephitic and bellicose shadows shend and fordo their greatest powers.

I lull  and lust, my pugnacious frazil, just like my recalcitrant logomachy that I ****** and slide angrily and profusely with m and everything I try to do. Just so long as you can see me usufruct and lobby forthright the message.

Mine. Hate. Anxiety.

To excel is like climbing a mighty mound
So dreary it seems trudging the desolated road,
But I've grown too weary doing inconsequential things.
Lazy to walk, craving for a comfy abode.

Though it's only disinterest that crosses my way
Like a torrent of the mountain creek,
Drowning me in trifling thoughts,
making my journey all the more bleak.

Hope I could find a tree along,
Bloomed with evergreen pomes
Of passion and perseverance.
I'd love to nibble at them for sure,
And regain my lost endurance.

I know I could transcend my limits
And ascend this arduous rock,
If only I took the first step
And started to walk.