a burning itch from hell

once again
I hear of somebody who is going to
settle down and
do their work,
painting or writing or whatever,
as soon as they get a better light
installed,
as soon as they move to a new
city,
or as soon as they come back from the trip they
have been planning,
or as soon as…

it’s simple: they just don’t want
to do it,
or they can’t do it,
otherwise they’d feel a burning
itch from hell
they could not ignore
and “soon”
would turn quickly into
“now.”

[Charles Bukowski {1920-1994} 'excuses', from Sifting Through the Madness for the Word, the Line, the Way]