I Hate the Calendar
I hate the calendar.
It hangs in the assumption
That something will happen.
Not that it should happen,
Or that it needs to happen,
But it will happen anyway,
No matter what I say.
I hate the calendar,
Not because I fear commitments,
But I despise the thought of obliging myself
To something that doesn’t pertain
To my present state.
Tomorrow can worry about itself;
I have enough on my mind today.
I hate the calendar.
Every day is another tilted red cross.
A vibrant intersection
Of lifelines and deadlines;
Everything I can do
And how long I have to do it.
I most hate the calendar
Because it answers
The question of my mortality.
It screams from every corner
That old adage that now has a new meaning to me:
“Your days are numbered!”
I know I’ll die;
I don’t need a calendar to remind me.
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