Hours I Wasted

Look at me.

Again.

Sitting in a wreckage

I made with my own two hands.

Hours—

gone.

Dreams—

rotting in a pile of “maybe tomorrow.”

I say I care.

I lie.

I say I'll change.

I won't.

I'm addicted to the delay,

the itch of avoidance,

the comfort of failure,

just far enough to ignore

but close enough to taste.

Motivation?

I killed it

with excuses and scrolling,

with vacant stares,

and cheap distractions.

I had the time.

I just squandered it away.

Like everything else.

I make my plans like offerings -

and then I burn them.

I romanticize potential

as if that has ever saved anyone.

I disgust myself

but not enough to move.

Not enough to fix it.

So rot I here,

In the mess I created. 

Until the guilt drowns louder

than my comfort.

Until hating myself

hurts more than 

doing the work.