I count my life in increments,
between 8:00 and 4:00,
clumps of time that form the basis
of everyday waste,
that I judge
against any time to myself.
Those hours, pre four, are
compared to workdays and
I chastise, I berate,
if I do not fill them with joy,
for once that bookend rolls
around I am left standing,
evaluating the choices made.
Oh how I fail each exam
so roundly, yet what else
am I to do?
My self critic harsher
than any reality tv panel,
it rates me F and casts
me away for the next
weekend, or sick day, where
again I will stand before
a jury of my reflections.