Chronic Procrastinaton


Sunday nights, Monday mornings.
Hungover head full of alarms and warnings.
I grumble and yawn as I search the air
for some noble concept, that makes it look like I care:
Climate change, women's rights,
the plight of other races at the hands of the Whites.
Whatever it is, one thing I know,
it didn't come out of my heart, my mind or my soul.
It rushed forth from quite a different void—
one I utilize when time is destroyed.
Not the best choice, but the only one left,
to pen desperate scrawls completely bereft
of anything with genuine substance or depth,
and yet still get a good grade! I knew that I would.
The things that come out of my butt are still pretty damn good!

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