Poetry Found in Issue 3: Spooky



Really It’s Not

I’d like to tell you that my life is consumed by my work

But it’s not.

I have so many hobbies I would like to explore,

So many half-started interests

But my days are wasted by needless distractions

I knowingly do this, even now

It’s three in the morning, and here I am smoking one too many cigarettes

Staring up at a dark black sky, waiting

Waiting for me to instigate a change I won’t allow myself to make

To finishing my work so I can spend time writing,





I see myself conquering this seemingly insurmountable amount of work

Instead of living in fear of it

But my anxiety consumes me

I put it off for as long as I’ll allow myself to, in fear of my performance

Socially, academically, professionally,

All rushed attempts manufactured by my procrastination.

A self perpetuating cycle of torment that I’m afraid to break because it’s comfortable

I measure my failure by others’ successes

Dwelling in this bottomless pit of self-loathing

Am I genuinely doing my best? It doesn’t feel like it.

Every interest I explore ends in guilt

Guilt for not continuing to work

Is this a culture glorifying work? My own unrealistic expectations of a work ethic?

A lack thereof?

I procrastinate the work I can’t look at anymore

Telling myself I’ll return to it soon

But I don’t.

My days are filled by alternating between work and procrastinating it

There’s no time for anything else

Hours of labor during the day cumulate into evenings filled by fleeting desires

Followed by sleepless nights, groggy mornings and empty bottles

My work is never ending

And because it never stops, I never create

I’d like to tell you it’s because of this peak-less mountain I climb But really it’s not.


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