The consept of time.
What is it?
Creeping from day to night.
Holding us in a scedule we,
ourselves created.
When we could have drifted idly by.
Wasting away slowly.
Ignorent.
We gave our suffering a name.
Time.
To much or to little.
The consept of time.
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When I Write Deppressing Poems
PoetryJust me. Writng some poems. They're really deppressing.
