Procrastination is the art of delaying our progress, cloaking our potential in the comfortable veil of inaction

I sit at my desk Not knowing what to write next,

Letting hesitation decide my fate To be or not to be great.

 Is it critics’ ratings and rantings I fear Or is it internal voices audible to trained ears?

As I reconcile what I hear and what I am, Standing firm against my disbelief that I can,

With precision, I land that pen on the page And for now, the perfectionist is caged.

The risk of failure outweighed by the joys of creativity, Inaction is realized as the true source of my misery,

Forming history, by simply being present.