Time.
It's not that I don't have it.
It is that it is spoken for.
A million and one little things have taken possession of my time.
I have none in which to write.
My heart is heavy with the weight
of all the words not written down,
My feet unsteady and ready
to stumble from the stories that pound
against the walls of my mind.
They are begging for release,
the letters, the syllables, the words.
The beat their angry fist against the confines each night, demanding to be heard.
But I give them no respite
because there is no time.
Is this how life is to be?
Has it begun already,
where I am caught up in a whirlwind of growing up
so much so that I cannot even carve away a space of the day to sit and think of what I want to say?
Is this how it is to be now?
How did it get to this point. How?
If I stop, school will suffer,
grades will buffer,
but time offers me a place were I can
avoid all of that.
Time is cunning.
He is ruthless.
He is always running never stopping,
heartless.
Time shows no mercy.
Time is like death.
You always run from him,
he always catches you.
I am running out of time,
I can see the finish line but it is always out of reach, is that what life teaches you?
Life is taking all of my time,
and leaving none for the rhymes.
SK
