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.