Little Mountain

It is in no way yours to read,
yet I write it for you.
It is written to you, to you,
To you and to everyone else.
Our yellow star is setting
as I reach for the lamp,
to continue this...
whatever it is.

It is silent with televisions blaring
and music speaking to me.
I sing.
Poorly, but I sing
because I have nothing to say.
I cannot tell you anything of substance
because my humble exterior
will not allow me to reveal
my secret arrogance.

It is my habit to extol motivation,
but I reign over an apathetic parade.
That is my forte, as is procrastination,
the cause for my laborious efforts.
My hobby is laziness;
my passion is achievement.
I am Thomas Jefferson.
It is a sin.