Downstairs from my bedroom is a living space,

with two leather couches, a larger screen TV, and a few colorful posters on the wall.

It’s humble and comfortable.

And if I was set,

if I was where I want to be,

I’d be happy.

But as each day passes,

I hate that room all the more.

Every second I waste on one of those couches,

staring at that dumb electric box,

I fail.

And, I hate failing.

I hate that I waste my time,

and in this way I recognize the words of an ancient.

The things I want to do, I do not.

And the things I don’t want to do,

I do.

Fuck.