As if the Procrstitorian has ever lived up to the name- 2 a.m. is a good time for poetry.
Wicked, the name given because
of pure ambition, the drive that
separates me from those who have
given up their dreams in turn for
what might be considered a safer
secure “i-do-alright’ kind
of life, the title corralling me
out of commonalities and placing
me behind lines drawn, mind boggling
technicalities that would see me waste
my life away if I try to play the
game that they set out right,
refusing to jump through hoops
I end up on my own life blood,
the essence of my own time,
So I must stalk through shadows
in search of success and wade
through early morning hours
in pursuit of my happiness
while time slips mercilessly
ever onward in despite of my
drooping eyes and caffeine weakens,
the effects draining over time,
till I am left running on my
will alone though, thankfully,
it is on it that and my strengthening
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moon soup 