The Anthem of My (Procrasti-)Nation

Every Day I wake up
In debt to the morning
Alarm clock ringing
up the compound interest,
as I negotiate an extension,
another line of credit,
10 more minutes.

It’s been this, this stress
misdiagnosed as laziness
Since before I possessed words
to express it.
I’m kicking myself before
my feet even touch the floor.

Crawling to the coffee pot, my pour-
over motivation dripping out
as slowly as an IV.
I cling desperately
to this diminishing delivery
of daily energy.

Until finally,
I stand at attention
strike up the anthem
Thoughts, so tight in my head,
roll like off a snare drum.
Evicted my feelings
Now I’m clinical, numb.
Can’t even tell if I’m faking
my imposter syndrome.

Gave all my journals away
to the monkeys on my back.
I sit back
and watch them throw words
at the page
in four letter excrements.
We’ll see what sticks
or what’s true
They’re not always the same

Friday confessional
at Our Lady of the Internet,
where I outsource my anxiety,
and kneel at the altar
of my self-curated algorithm,
screen staring back at me,
blinking silently, somehow still so full
of judgement, the funding of my sacrifice
insufficient.

I mean, who made you the merchant of penance,
crying like my debt is
the source of your abrasion?
You want your pound of flesh so bad?
I carry extra for just the occasion.

So cut it out of me,
a meta-physical lobotomy,
mutilation serves as diversion,
opportunity to slip out of the emergency
exit, undetected,
some poor approximation of free.

But escaping can be its own trap,
its own faulty roadmap back
to the source of my procrastination.
More exasperation
running through the same loop,
I’m running out of things to not do.

Why do I let myself off the hook
so effortlessly when I know
this inactivity is baring its teeth, ready to
inevitably bite me.
And yet again, I let this me
sneak right past me, no accountability,
not bothering to check ID
or at least insist it pay the entrance fee.

Instead, I stare into every glowing distraction
drawn like a moth to the shame
as it engulfs my wings, consumes me.
I’m going out in a blaze of worry.

And still I sit on top of this
impossibly high wall of privilege,
that serves to remind me
That my complaints are superfluous,
and admitting struggle feels like an insult
to everyone who hasn’t had it as easy.
Every advantage is laced with expectation.
My legs twitch betraying my thoughts,
perpetually uncomfortable
in the moment.

So I give up.
I give up this ghost of willpower
that at its best is fleeting.
Stop trying to be better
and just re-center on accepting who I am.
But who am I really?

Maybe instead of worrying about
who I am
I just let go
of everything I am not

and see what’s left standing.

From the collection Steer into the Skid

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