When I'm waiting in the lull,
between the things I have to do
and all that waits for me to stop,
and all I have been tethered to,
I occupy these idle hands,
composing pointless poetry
and reading as it were a job,
but sometimes I gets mad at me.
The wasted hours, joined at ends,
spent smoking, writing, making love.
I say these things distract from life.
What life have I been dreaming of?
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