Analysis of Waste of Time

The flowers on the tree of futility are in full bloom
So many things are pointless, like eating, shaving, or cleaning my room.
What's the use? It's all going to need to be done again anyways.
Yet somehow I still do them, by some miracle.
My brain tells me to sleep whenever I'm able.
Yet, somehow I don't.
Somehow, I won't.
The primavera of productivity has long since passed
Giving way to the summer of moments that will never last.
Ah, to feel like I've accomplished something.
That must be a privilege from myself I am withholding.
Every day
It feels like a waste of time
Yet through it all
Despite everything
I can still find the time
To lie awake, by myself, late at night
To stew over my past and wonder if what I did was right
To lie in bed, yearning for a warm embrace
To have the privilege  of caressing another weary face
Even then, I'm sure I'd still find a way
To make it seem like I won't give the time of day
Because after all
Every day is like the next
Yesterday and tomorrow blend into today's mess
It's not my problem though.
It's a waste of time, simply because I'm living in the past
The jokes told years ago always seem to have the loudest laughs
And for the future, that's when I'll clean my room
Make my bed, get new shoes, fix my haircut or pay my dues
But the current moment, even though it's the present that’s all mine
I can't help but feel like everything is a waste of time.