Spastic, Erratic

I am not who you think I am.
You imagine me as a flower child,
sitting in the corner
laughing at really nothing.

I write words to bid my time,
and in the process my peacy lilly
has died. The cat needs to be fed,
and there's paperwork to do.

Laud and praise are for the idols,
whether they be ceramic or human.
I don't know if I'm ceramic or human.

And now the tomato vines are parched,
but the pumpkins are thriving.
That's a good change, I think.

You're not the only one who dislikes timidity,
there's quite the line.
I write words to make me forget,
but somehow I always end up remembering.

I'll not dwell on this anymore.
Neither will you.
I can't exactly afford any more dead plants, anyways.