Hunched Over My Desk

I should keep writing poems, without reason or rhyme,

Say 'no' more often to others, guard with life my time.

Have a strict morning routine, don't let life intervene,

Before I eat that frog for breakfast, I shouldn't be seen.

Other people are hell, they'll inevitably interrupt,

It's a mark of a great man, he won't let that disrupt,

He'll schedule his calendar, for me-time well in advance,

And block time for deep work, leave nothing to chance. 

I've achieved financial freedom, I've retired early,

My friends still hustle on weekends, which makes me surly.

What use is abundant time, if not spent with a loved one,

I can craft a few more poems, but will miss with friends all the fun.

The only reason to write poems, is to connect, not kill time,

If it doesn't deepen our connection, it's mere sophistry- more a crime. 

Time-off Pressure

By some happenstance, I have an hour to spare,

How to fill it with meaning- moments like this are rare.

I can churn a poem, or use it to rest and heal,

By taking care of myself, the day I can better deal.

 

Imagine the horror, if I had a week to kill,

I could waste one day, but there would be 6 days still.

I could craft a collection, or plan a vacation well,

Collect some memories to hang on, for the upcoming 358 days hell.

That I'm going on a sabbatical, leaves everyone amused,

At the prime of my life, some years improperly used.

Make poetry a side hustle, or go on a globe-trotting trip,

Make the best use of downtime, which will disappear in a blip.

I don't want to optimize for time or experiences, I just want to gently while away,

Publishing my poems may bring fame and money, but to get lost in the process is more my way.

Stuck, But Not Resigned

Screeching sounds, like a record that's stuck,

You try to break patterns, but without any luck.

Doomed to repeat, in an infinite loop,

Pressure builds up, to end in one fell swoop. 

Inhale for 4 seconds, for 4 seconds hold breath,

Observe the endless cycle, till you're bored to death.

This life may be unique, each day is but humdrum,

A long life is appalling, you haven't realized, how come?

Some plant a sapling, that each day grows,

With love and care, it blossoms in a rose.

If each day you improve, by just a wee bit,

By the end of this life, amidst Gods you'll sit.

An eternal life can be hell, it can also heaven be,

I have infinite rebirths, to figure out how to be free. 

50 Books, Anyone?

Fast food hurts the body, fast reading hurts the mind, 

To get nourished, savour deeply, to the book, and yourself be kind.

Set artificial targets, all you want, like reading 50 books in a year,

But if a meaty book can't be skimmed, you'll have to skip it, I'm afraid, my dear.

Speed reading makes a nice cocktail, shallow knowledge, stirred with aplomb,

The book is supposed to stay with you, but the moment you've read it, it's gone.

A checkbox ticked, a trophy earned, it now adorns your bookshelf,

Pushed to a corner, gathering dust, as you couldn't make it a part of self.

As the year-end approaches, you are haunted, how many can you really get through?

The real question you should be asking is, how many can get through to you?

If reading it didn't change your thoughts or acts, wasn't that a waste of time?

If you ingested AI summaries or picked random quotes, was that a lesser crime?

Reading a book is like meditation, and reading a poem a form of prayer,

You should spend some time on each one, unravelling it layer by layer.

The Caged Bird

She's locked in the cage, I'm roaming freely in this world,

As the distance grows steadily, I pine for her word,

Straining hard my ears, to pick her faintest sound,

Eager to return home, relieved that she's still around.

She's bound in a cage, I'm bound to her,

Have to return before noon, there's no time to err,

Have to feed her on time, ensure shade from light,

By caring for her deeply, make the cage feel right.

She's tiny and weak, which justifies the cage,

I'll have to eventually release- the thought fills me with rage.

It's a wild world out there, where lurk predators and friends,

No matter how I get attached, there's only one way this ends. 

I'll be a prisoner of her memories, for me, no turning page,

She'll roam freely in the world, while I'll be locked in this cage.

How The Grinch Stole Time

I get for my entire work life, only about 80,000 hours,

To save a few for leisure, I spend the rest behind bars.

If I want to keep earning the hours, even in the age of AI,

I'd better accommodate all demands, and to disconnect, say bye.

I sometimes steal some time, for self-care and rest,

The justification- it makes me efficient, it's all for the best.

Almost regularly on weekends, I'm handed an extra stash,

Anxiety grips how to spend it- it better be thoughtful, not brash.

Sometimes I'm able to earn some time, by outsourcing petty works,

I could use it in theory to write poems, but always the danger lurks, 

That I would not have invested well, made a wrong call, traded short,

With a limited supply of time, would have offended the Time God.

Maybe time doesn't come, at the end, from a store,

Maybe time, perhaps means, a little bit more.