Time,
oh time is a silly thing,
it proves things right
and it proves them wrong.
Its’ seemingly long years change you and all that can be touched.
Time-
this illusion we base our lives around, this illusion we obsess over
(don’t deny it, we all do).
It confines us to a routine, to a norm.
The time spent at desks makes us into zombies.
The time spent after chokes us with copious amounts of papers and projects.
But occasionally it grants us a wondrous thing called
wisdom.
It bestows upon us insight and growth.
My always shrewd teenage self has grown to believe that time…
can go **** itself.
I want to fall into a slumber that is a day or two long,
catch up on rest and miss the trials of everyday life.
Of course, once several days pass or several thousand ticks of a clock,
I’ll crave another respite.
Life.
Life is hard.
It’s tiring.
And somehow there is never enough time to
work,
work on the work,
rework the work,
eat,
sleep,
take a couple deep breathes to keep from jamming a stapler into any eyeballs,
be a healthy person,
and do all the things that society tells you to do.
Maybe a designated sleep day would be nice.
If we only need 8 hours of peaceful slumber
for every 16 hours of traumatizing wakefulness,
then sleeping for 24 hours would give us
48 hours of working.
Right?
No.
But it’s a proportion,
so theoretically it should make sense.
Which leads me to conclude that 8 hours is not merely enough time to rest.
Unless you’re under the age of 6.
Or you’re retired.
Or in a coma.
Or…
But no.
No, no, no, no, no.
We must keep going.
Like good little soldiers
on and on
for 60 years,
70 years,
80 years?
I’m sorry but that just does not appeal to me.
Why oh why would I want to work my body to unhealthy levels.
Why oh why would I want to exhaust my mind to points of breakdowns
nearly
every
day.
It’s silly to want to have enough time to eat healthily.
And hit the gym 3 or 4 times a week.
And sleep until recharged.
Yes that’s preposterous.
Ridiculous.
Time is an illusion
that is ruining lives.
If we have an illusion
destroying us from the inside out,
does that make us
crazy?

The beauty of her eyes are bold
Brighter than the glass that's blown
Hit the bowel of the soul,
She makes me feel week
Lovely like mink but, after her eyes look *****
Its okay because her lovelyness is what I seek
This wonderful feeling is magnificant
And thank you, love for noticing my small existance

The walls were blue or
Maybe, grey and
Your eyes were brown
Your hair, the same
The music so soft
An echo in my mind
The hours drifted slowly
The worst passage of time

My voice, once sure
Now hesitant and shy
My heart, once pure
Now broken and dying
In the moonlight through the window
You looked at me like a ghost
As you told me, so cruelly
I was not the man you loved the most

Is it some well known brand in tissues?
No, its the cheapest ones
Usually found in Dollar picks.

It's you I'm talking about
You were needed
I mean needed, not need
or will need,
And so you were used.

It was November  
Running nose, croupy cough
Irritating and unwanted things
Coming out of the body,
Had to be cleaned
With that tissue
Including unwanted feelings.

The tissue, too *****!
And when I threw it
In the bin
I felt as if it was you
I was done
It was used and discarded.
Like you.

They hide gifts,
They hold thinking,
                  stinking or otherwise,
They help sort, organize, stuff,
                      S.O.S.
for us who need boxes and either
what we own is inside a box, which'is
inside a box we live in but the letters
of the names are scrambled as
they were dropped as I rambled
past the point of no return.

Then there is thinking outside the box.

Compass points that are arrows to Mr. and Ms. Direction,
an insurrection of sorts if your internal compass,
misleads and you wrap your arms to shore up the sides
which look like ribs but act like boxwalls and constrict your
breathing, and you end up
heaving, gasping and reaching for a paper bag,
to even your breathing
           to signal your leaving, anxious for this to end?
                         so I can start grieving for
what I never had,
an imagination, without walls of cardboard.


©DWE112013