Without fulfilment, I left the Earth,
I seldom marked the ground below.
They say death ought to follow birth,
And yet my seeds refused to grow.
Perhaps their roots were averse,
Lurking beneath the surface.
Because of this terrible curse,
I did not serve my purpose.
My blue mind mixed not with the red;
My cold not with the heat of others.
Inside, sat stubborn: a lustful dread
Of drowning in male lovers.
The sin I lived consumed my mind,
Rendering me utterly worthless.
Despite the nature of humankind,
I did not serve my purpose.
My persistent thoughts were deemed immoral,
Incompatible with the rest.
It seemed I had a thirst for quarrel
And yet it is me I detest.
I did not love the taste of peach,
For its juiciness was surplus.
Instead I sucked, just like a leech,
And did not serve my purpose-
Here I sit, pen in hand,
Vomiting mere words.
My life: nature had not planned,
Thus I intend to join the birds.
Above, I shall soar, ignoring below,
Wielding beautiful hopelessness.
And, as everyone ought to know,
I will die without serving my purpose!
YOU ARE READING
A Procrastinator's Poetry
PoetryI tend to procrastinate. A lot. Instead of doing homework, revision and things that are considered useful to others my age, I sit and contemplate things. Things that I usually express via the profound art of poetry. Most of the poems I publish are n...
