Procrastination

It hangs over me like a cloud
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.

K K McClelland
November 11, 2008