the art of doing nothing

there is a certain perverse joy
in sitting and staring at a wall
with no concern, no thought
no fear of the future at all

even if the future is crawling
after you at its slow pace
you can just sit and stare at your wall
just resign from the rat race

the art of doing nothing
it takes years to master
but once you've got the hang of it
you can do nothing faster

stare at walls long enough
the walls start staring back at you
when you want to do nothing
there is nothing you can do

Termites

The man looks perfectly okay on the outside

His skin is shiny with sweat of hard labor

All his afflictions, he manages to hide

He hides everything he abhors 

Beneath his skin, his life is a war

He speaks heathen prayers, alone

His soul ripples, filled with scars

For him, there is no home

At night he sleeps a dreamless sleep

He feeds his fears to the termites

They crawl under his skin deep

He used to, but now he never fights

The man looks perfectly okay

Inside him, his bones are rotten 

He fades away one fine day

All alone, forgotten