Poetry

Spooktown, 14 (288.)

Taking little trips,
I read a book,
I listen to a song,
I play a game,
I play along,
while work calls,
and the worst part of having no motivation right now
is knowing that I may not ever have motivation,
not to do what I need to do,
I’ve got all these tasks
and assignments and projects
and lots of office-speak for “stuff to do”
and I just
don’t wanna do ’em,
so I distract myself,
knowing full well that with my frame of mind,
I’ll feel guilty, I’ll acknowledge that I’m letting people down,
I’ll “buckle down” and look back at my list of things to do
and I’ll do them, slowly, painfully, one at a
bloody time,
until, maybe,
I’ve caught up just a little
by 5 or 6 AM
and the hastily-sent emails confirming my completion
spread the illusion that I’ve awoken early
to ring this joyous bell,
though everyone in the office knows
I’m a night owl
and I sleep until the afternoon,
and I look in the mirror
and I lie in my bed
and I ask myself
“What the hell do you want to do?,”
and this season I,
I really want to sit down
and chill out
with a good book
or a controller
or a video
and just sit back,
but what does this accomplish,
I ask myself,
what’s the point of not enriching myself,
’cause really, what I want to do
is make something really cool,
really touching and moving and important,
a game, a book, a collection of poems,
I’d like to make a million tiny reminders
that life can be beautiful,
that people can be good,
but for now I flip-flop between
too much coffee and too many pastimes
so work is hard to do,
and I pay for it later,
and they pay me for it on time,
and I’m so far behind,
and I just can’t rewind,
but I’ll get it done on time, this time,
and I’ll get through this hellish slog
to maybe finally embrace the weekend
and see the trees, and the myriad leaves,
and the tired bees,
and,
and so many good things,
I just need a break, is all.

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