There's a lot of past and more of the future.
A lot of crying and many more tears, of joy and sadness
Dumped In this huge pile of Present.
Which we are unhappy with.
Hoping to get more,
More more than we can.
More than we deserve.
What is this pressure?
Sharp like a razor.
Bleeding through the nibs of our pens and literature.
And us?
What about US?
What are we going to do with all this future?