Confessions Of A Procrastinator Poem by Usama Maymun

The day started with high hopes,
I was glad to breathe the morning air,
replete with the promise,
that much work would be done,
and many seeds would be sown.
And I began to think,
of all the songs I would sing,
and the tunes I would weave.

But in my complacence,
I paid no heed to my longing,
too drunk on the perfume of my day dreams,
I dilly dallied in negligence and squandered,
the moments that should have been spent in toil,
Procrastinating,
I became entangled in works of no consequence.

The sun made its round,
and handed over its charge to the moon,
the crushing heat of the day broke,
and gave way to the cool and windy night,
the firmament lit up,
with countless waning and waxing stars,
And in the wee hours I found myself,
sitting in the dark,
looking in dismay at all the work,
that lay before me,
unfinished, untouched.
Everything was as I had left it,
when I had started full of promises and hopes.

At the brink of despair,
a voice breaks from within,
'no matter, there is always a tomorrow',
and I sleep with that hope,
anxious to start anew,
with only the fear that death may come,
before my work here is done.