I despise time.
I despise having too much of it.
I wait too long and it forces thoughts I’d kept hidden for as long as I could to resurface back to my conscience,
some invisible force that serves to torture my being,
tearing at my core,
as if my chest held a crumbling hour glass.

I despise time.
It goes as quick as it comes,
taking everything I desperately hold onto along with it,
washed away in its corruption.
Family.
Friends.
What I love.
What I keep close to me.
All ripped away in time‘s merciless hands.

I despise time.
Too long in the dark,
staring at walls—
it warps my sight,
summoning that of which I beg to never see again,
yet somehow always comes back.
The faces.
The shadows.
Waltzing around my head in a mocking game,
I lay,
clutching the pulse threatening to burst through my chest.
My stomach hollow and twisting,
my mind unable to divide the real and unreal.
Are the shadows illusions of unnecessary fear?
I can no longer tell.
I look to my left,
and look to my right,
and wake up.
. . .
No I didn’t.
Time seized me in its spiral once again,
smearing colours of confusion and panic across my weak mind—
staining it in thick strokes, never to be peeled off.
The shadows gone,
disintegrated back into each corner of my room,
but the everlasting nausea remains to taunt me.

I despise time.
It creates questions never to have answers.
Why must I become a victim?
No answer.
Why must time steal from my life?
No answer.
Why must it cause my pain,
my grief,
my fear—
yet still bring happiness,
fleeting contentment?
No answer.
Time cannot speak,
questions remain unanswered.
Actions speak louder than words but time makes sure I can’t unravel its intentions,
enjoying observing my suffering,
my anguish,
and my sorrow.
I cannot escape time,
no beginning,
no end.
It traps me in a prison I’ll never escape,
leading anxiety and paranoia into my life instead.
Those are no keys,
my cell will not unlock until time allows it to,
freed by death.