it used to throw me into a wall and i banged my head so many times that i realized that it’s in my mind, “time”
it’s a story aching to be written - only it’s a story lacking characters, and they were kiddin’ when they said that time was tangible - truth is, we’re here, we’re now, we’re infrangible the story wasn’t written for us to keep
and i don’t think it’s right that time hangs from the clocks in a ticking glass or that it’s a vase of dying roses only potentially shattered by poets time’s a lie time’s what keeps you on rhythm, on rhyme
age strips from you the rapture of being in the moment what’s passed grips you ‘til you’re stock-still, speechless, stricken only with rainy days in the memory places, sleepless nights and splintering vases - rather,
smile at the starlit galaxy, feel live symphonies in all your cells, and taste the choruses that freed your throat of a stupid lock that clicked when someone deemed you “not enough -“ not enough? you’re filled with stories, you’re making one right now, and think how every moment is with you each time you inhale, since you first sought breath with infant lungs the moment you escaped this hellish jail
time is not a ticking glass it’s laughing with me after class and knowing that will always last in you no matter how far or how fast i go from what’s long, gone, passed because time is in fact a useless mass of numbers in a ticking glass.