Work piles up like bundles of cloth,
all washed and dried, but left to fold.
Old patterns repeat, loops of defeat,
a great deal of tasks left incomplete;
same old, same old:
too much to do, too little time.
Procrastination, dear daily visitor,
why alas should you outstay your welcome?
I make you feel at home-I understand-
by keeping for tomorrow the things I'm not fond of doing,
but ought to do today.
Yet, I wish you'd left sooner.
Engaged with vain gestures of serving you coffee and snacks,
my true passions are often left stacked away in the bottom kitchen racks;
same old, same old:
too much to do, too little time.
As I sit down and write this poem,
spend time on what calms my soul,
I risk getting too comfortable in your presence
and being distressed by your absence.
You're cozy in my bedroom, tucked in for the night
in sleeping at my expense, you find great delight.
In my bed, you wish to have a good night's sleep
while I toss and turn in my unorganised "To-Do" heap;
Same old, same old:
too much to do, too little time.
I shall kick you out one day, without doubt,
when all the things I ought to do become all the things I long to do,
because then, I shall not put away one for the sake of the other,
instead, I shall put you away with not a hint of bother.
Until then,
Procrastination, dear ol' friend of mine,
come sit with me, have whiskey and wine,
we shall twirl to all the tunes you love, and
I shall let you overstay for now.
Pic courtesy: Pinterest
Comments