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.

.

.

.

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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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