I have nothing to say,
Sometimes I have a burning in my hear,
Of self-loathing and shame,
For, of all things, not being productive,
As if what is outside,
Doesn't mean something different to you,
Than that which you cannot see with your eyes,
Even now I feel like I'm wasting time,
Procrastinator's curse?
Is it for that, that I've not anything,
But the moths in my purse?
I'm better now,
I needed distraction,
Action to convince myself I work hard,
Something real to upchuck my inside in.
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