It hangs over me like a cloud
haunting me to pick up my pen
to write words till I get it all down.
haunting me to pick up my pen
to write words till I get it all down.
But I procrastinate.
Must that cloud burst and spill
all those memories onto the page
before I take notice?
I procrastinate.
Is the content of memory
too vague, too distant, too painful?
I ponder this.
Still I procrastinate.
Why not early morning?
What’s wrong with mid-day?
Is evening too tiring?
I procrastinate.
I avoid this relationship
with my mind, wary
dark images may surface.
So, still I procrastinate.
I spend hours thinking
of who I am and
what I am about.
Procrastinating.
Perhaps I’m not a writer after all.
Perhaps I’m a wannabe? A pretender?
Truthfully…
A procrastinator.
kkmcclelland 