twenty two, twenty three, twenty four

hours in a day

like the white rabbit,

we watch time and stay at the bay.



ten, eight, six, four

words like ‘it’s not good enough,’

or maybe just simple and badly-woven adjectives,

sometimes it makes us feel blue.



thirty, sixty two, countless

nights spent dreaming with open eyes

but all that comes are unkind;

worse than reality’s piercing swords of ice.



yellow, red, blue, nonexistent.

what we know is counting down

to the day the string snaps

the insides spilled; to everyone, its uglies shown.



three, nine, twenty seven

years spent as busy as a cat on a hot tin roof;

the forgotten summers fell into piles of ashes,

yet to our bars of efforts, everyone stays aloof.



one too many times

it happens.

one too many days we thought

**** it up.



(so we did.)



six,five, four

ages we were taught numbers and their orders.

nowadays, **** it up and

count sheep throughout math.