Done?

Done?

Always accompanied by a question mark than a

full stop,

For a full stop asks for satisfaction,

But the dear me meets dissatisfaction.

For an end to a task exhaust me in and out,

Thus, of the incomplete I find a little of something

to be proud.

But the little is disappointing,

For the time consciously had been misused,

Only I am to be Accused

It's disheartening how the mind pleasures

distractions,

Despite the dire dream of excelling,

I am pulled back by procrastination.

The heart relinquishes.

As the mind is entertained by diversions,

Due to which the dedication in me extinguishes.

At the end I question why?

Why? Why Clip my own wings?

When at the end I wanna fly?