This poem is irrelevant.
Seriously, you have better things to do.
You could be lying on your back in the grass
stargazing with those you love
or dancing alone in the kitchen
waiting for the cookies to be done.
You could be on the last leg of a car trip to the beach
rolling down the windows to smell the salty air
or roasting marshmellows in the twilight
laughing too hard at the very worst jokes.
You could be cuddled on the couch
sobbing at a heartbreaking movie
or out shopping with your friends
with your new favorite jeans in a paper bag.
You could be braiding somebody's hair
and listening to their most delicious secrets
or huddled with a huge stack of books
reading everything from romance to mystery to sci-fi and back again.
You could be doing infinte wonderful things
but feel free to read this poem again if you're not.