Always Life at the Eleventh Hour

I do not want to work today.

I did not want to yesterday.

Meanwhile, the work pile flourishes.

I wish it would just go away.


Tomorrow, I will have to do

The things that I should be doing now,

And now, I worry about the things

That I should have done the day before.


But the more the waiting work pile grows,

The more I want to laze and play,

And so I’ll just procrastinate

Until it’s almost far too late.


There’s always life at the eleventh hour

As the avoidable becomes your certain fate,

But until that point, my work will be

Just some thing I contemplate.




This entry was published on January 10, 2013 at 5:20 PM. It’s filed under Poetry and tagged , , , . Bookmark the permalink. Follow any comments here with the RSS feed for this post.

write the fox

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