So, I begin: dust blown, pages turned, pen in hand, eyes squinting.
Time ticks, its toll brutally ripping away that first surge of incentive, then the motivation
Then there’s the sigh, the flipping of the pen, the doodling, the eyes straying.
Time tocks, its toll stealing the pen from my hand, the concentration from my head
I’m deceived by smooth thinking, beckoning guitar, open window, sun melting, head aching...
Time ticks, its toll swallowing a good intention, a promise of five minutes, five turns into sixty
So here’s the end: book abandoned, pen lying destitute, revision cards vacant, timetable grieving. Gratification short. Remorse long. Self-punishment vicious. Work zero. Guilt 100%.
Fresh incentive: dust blown, pages turned, pen in hand, eyes squinting.
Can you guess what this thief is called?
(Let me just clarify this was written in a break… a short, well-timed break between English lit and RS revision!)