I am so procrastinating.

This was written as I was trying to make sense of the current essay I'm working on, though poetry and other essays (Elliot and Plato that will be on my midterm next week) was also on my mind. Good way to spend my time, right? By the way, the paper is a little over half way finished. 

I have these random thoughts

Flying high through my head, 

And they tend to be fairly distracting as I try to write this paper. 

Thoughts of a boy, thoughts of my future

Thoughts, rather questions, of what I will do. 

Thoughts about music and how I will lead it 

Thoughts of how I will react when 

That sweet, innocent, one asks me to do somethin'

And I must decline. 

Thoughts about friends and sisters and abusive mothers. 

Thoughts about cancer and seizures and death. 

I know my existence is just that, a short moment in time. 

But what all will happen? 

And when will I know? 

What will I do when I hit a road block-

For one surely will come. 

How do the colors I chose for my quilt work? 

They frayed and fought and tore at each other

Because they saw only the shadows of love 

they would soon receive. 

Now out of the cave they are soft and refined

All straight-edged and ready to move on to a greater being. 

The television in the other room is no match for the food timer as it beeps,

She jumps up and races to turn it all off

Then forgets why it was on 

Or just ignores the whole thing. 

Sinatra blares back at me his words from a friend named Cole. 

“You’re under my skin, I’ve got you deep in the heart of me” 

Oh, but why? 

Why is that stupid thing under my skin? 

One click of a button and the music cuts off,

And the smoke detecter a reminder of our current mortality 

Soon there will be none as the pizza and dishes go up in flames. 

Now why is it important to feed ourselves fat?

Why must we talk, cook, and clean, 

Care for the kiddiots and do not as we please? 

More music, but Nickleback now

Crazy and dark, still though, sublime. 

The moments are fleeing and daylight is leaving, 

Rushing to beat me to my day’s end. 

I don’t have one deep in my heart, 

Not one comes to show himself, nor even to eat. 

So why would I care for that thing under my skin? 

Now what’s here is more written 

And put altogether than the essay that should have been

Researched and fashioned. 

But why do I care? 

Now why is it under here, my skin? 

Maybe the thought that an absolute grade this will show 

May only be that of a distant near dream 

For all that he cares is the thoughts that don’t come, 

Of fast food, technology, and public responsibility. 

Heck, why do I care? What good will it bring?

Oh right, for a grade that silly thing will consort.