The Dance of Celerity and Tardiness.

Head down, downcast eyes,

I'm running again

(Don't notice me)

For another bus because I missed one already.

(Don't notice me)

I seem to be running late everywhere,

Running late in this journey of life as well.

Late, late, late, I do not have the luxury of time,

But carry the burden of urgency,

Constantly pushing myself through this and that,

Because I imagine myself to be running late.

And yet I feel the acute pain

Of not achieving much in my haste -

Rather I am quite slow

In my plodding from one task to another.

Thus goes the dance of celerity and tardiness.

Yet I am fast at other things, like reading - 

Distastefully fast, my friend tells me.

"You read like this and soon 

You'll skim through life much the same way."

No, I don't want that, I think, frightened out of my haste.

I want to live life to the full, relishing the friendships with God and man.

Skimming through words here and there,

Perhaps without deep ponderous reflection,

I spit out poems which I hope

Will shock the modern day man

Out of his modern day stupor.

When did I begin to write psychological

Or phemenological poems

That are confessional snapshots of my inner self?

What am I doing here

Doing metacognition instead of poetry?

But he did tell us to "Know thyself",

I justify myself for my words. 

Dear reader, absorb the philosophy and the worldview,

And spit out the unnecessary rambling words.

Until next time, good reader, until next time