Procrastination

The seconds tick
tock tick tock
on by
and the page is blank
with not a word.
It's absurd.
My roving eye catches
and I see myself
at the bottom of a cup
not a glass, a cup
of coffee.
I know what you were thinking
It's not as bad as that,
not yet;
though nothing's set
in stone.
Like a drumbeat of my being
the minutes tick
tock tick, and 
I feel I should be feeling
but there's nothing.
Not a worry,
tensions blurry,
though they should be
vehement, vivid, vibrant
in my eye
and in my mind,
but there is
nothing.
It's all slipping away
and I should be
chasing, choking, clawing
it back
instead I sit here
and I write
and I watch
the hours
tick tick tock.

A quest for singularity

Is there a more hopeless fate

than being a human mean?

Not lots or little gifted,

just somewhere in between

She is smart and capable,

passable, competent, fair

Never breached extraordinary,

and sadly is aware

of being merely average,

yet wanting so much more

Trapped in triviality,

for history to ignore

An unresistant speck in a surge,

lost in tide and time

No footprints in the sand for her,

just faceless pantomime

What is she but a footnote

on a swiftly turning page

A mute supernumerary 

in an unfortunate age

Born a century too early,

or a hundred years too late

To be, perhaps, exceptional 

but never truly great.

In a multitude of equals

she draws comfort from none

In a herd of trudging many, 
she but struggles to be One