Poems & Procrastination

I know.  I can't stop writing.  This is the only thing that makes me feel better.  Ironically... I'm writing in here so much that I'm procrastinating the writing I'm supposed to do for work.

"IN"
I worry that it will simply spill out of me.
Just as the tears flow, and sobs surprise,
I worry that it will be told to an enemy.
I can't know enemies though, until I see their eyes.

Some can bandy it about like a joke,
A simple little trivial detail.
I feel like it's likely to evoke,
Anger, frustration, even betrayal.

I know I can't keep holding it in,
As emotions grow more and more erratic,
It's the fear of them spotting the sin,
That keeps the secret in my attic.

I crave for one, just one real human being,
I can trust, and tell, and they'll support my weary heart.
I can't stand having so much love no one's seeing.
I can wait no more for old to end, and new to get its start.


"WATCH IT WORK"
I go on.
I don't think.
I feel fine.
I live life.

Then a picture comes in view,
All I wanted, at his shoe.
Pick it up, kick it away,
He can have it all his way.

I fight, and scrape, and sing my song,
I dance and shout, all the day long.
I'm the bird with the wounded wing.
It's some rare perhaps extinct breed that hears me sing.

I watch it work.
It seems so natural.
She likes him, he likes her,
I can only watch, analyze, infer.

I watch it work.
I try my hand.
It's another skill--
It's another tree where I cannot land.