I don’t want to say I lack discipline
(truth comes from repetition of beliefs),
yet, I see myself victim to this ”sin,”
and from this one root stem all of my griefs.
I need to assert what I want to be,
if I want to be needed for something,
and time spent working must outweigh time free,
if what I’m all about is blossoming.
My lonely ego though lusts in the night,
begging me to seek love and adventure;
even completing a poem’s a fight,
but avoidance is my only censure.
Procrastination makes me fear this fate:
Too late to bloom, too late to pollinate.

 
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