As I sit here
Watching the clock melt, like a Salvador Dali painting
The seconds and the minutes dripping down the wall.
The hours burning holes in my brain
All the time that I've allowed to pass
Without wanting to use it
Yet being afraid of it running out,
Of not having any time left to experience
When all along,
I could've put out the flames
That started in my head.
I have too many clocks
Reminding me of how much time I've wasted
How often I could've gotten in the car
Taken the road less traveled by,
Or gone the extra mile.
They say it's never crowded
But how am I to know
When I can't even clear the traffic jam in my mind?
As I sit here
Contemplating my worth, based on time used
I wonder how often the living truly live
Knowing that it is much more likely
That they are just shells of children
That were once alive.
The children that got lost
Staring at the overworked hands of Father Time
As I take the clock off the wall
And add it to my drawer of reminders,
I begin to wish that time didn't exist
Or rather, that we hadn't created it
Because too often I find myself walking the line
Between memorizing every detail of the clock
And ignoring its existence altogether.
Feb 18, 2017
Feb 18, 2017 at 7:04 PM UTC
As I sit here
Watching the clock melt, like a Salvador Dali painting
The seconds and the minutes dripping down the wall.
The hours burning holes in my brain
All the time that I've allowed to pass
Without wanting to use it
Yet being afraid of it running out,
Of not having any time left to experience
When all along,
I could've put out the flames
That started in my head.
I have too many clocks
Reminding me of how much time I've wasted
How often I could've gotten in the car
Taken the road less traveled by,
Or gone the extra mile.
They say it's never crowded
But how am I to know
When I can't even clear the traffic jam in my mind?
As I sit here
Contemplating my worth, based on time used
I wonder how often the living truly live
Knowing that it is much more likely
That they are just shells of children
That were once alive.
The children that got lost
Staring at the overworked hands of Father Time
As I take the clock off the wall
And add it to my drawer of reminders,
I begin to wish that time didn't exist
Or rather, that we hadn't created it
Because too often I find myself walking the line
Between memorizing every detail of the clock
And ignoring its existence altogether.
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