I can’t bring myself
To do
The things I ought to do,
Even ought not to do,
Because I’m stuck,
In a groove of melancholic waiting,
Not really wanting,
Not knowing what to expect,
Or what to anticipate,
In a fast paced
Wait,
Idling in activity that seems so important,
Despite it’s triviality,
In apocalyptic anticipation,
For every moment
It is the end.