Time is a trickster;
the ticking clock: its vicious heart.
It impregnates.
It destroys.
It heals.
It unravels.
It dons the skin of an imposter
in the coldest stretch of night:
a magician weaving fantasies
that sear.
Neutralize.
Inspire.
Though I wonder--
I worry--
are the days too long?
Are the nights too dim
and fleeting?
Do I dance through each
crescendo
in a lurid,
patchwork nightmare?
Or are my dreams so full of pain,
that soon,
I'll shatter beneath them
and finally wake up?

I wanna be me
With super powers.

As a child:
(I wanna be me).
As a teenager:
(I wanna be me).
As an adult:
(I wanted to be me).
As - me,

A rock.

You made a poem earlier about a blizzard
And I mean that’s cool and all
But I feel like I’m in a… not a desert
Because a desert is dry and unrelenting
But a worse feeling is when it’s hot and humid
Slowly baked as the sun shone on the rooftops
.
Making it hard to move
.
It’s so hard
.
So hard
.
.
To breathe...
.
But hey!
The sun will set eventually
It will all get better
Though I may be powerless now
I know it will get better
I know it will
.
.
.
.
I think

Who do you have to live for, if not yourself?