A Study In What Not To Do Poem by Christopher Withers

Deadlines besiege me, as stress pennoned limbs
ache for action, yet, procrastination consumes me.
I know relief will come, when: task complete
I can truly unbend, sit back and relax.

Yet, brain benumbed, I irradiate in a background
of autogenous anxiety. I stare through the TV,
study the grain on the page I'm not reading,
attempt to study the air.

Until, deadlines eve, when stress breaks free
staining my mouth, and eyes and senses, bitter
body, shocked, resuscitated
and frantic activity commences.