If time is a tube,
my life is a spiral,
A snail shell,
Sea creature,
Peculiar and Viral
and I work hard and move fast and time gets quicker,
slicker, with the blink of an eye and the tapping of a finger.
The day off that i was supposed to have
but you cancelled it out
and penciled in other plans.
My time is meaningless, it belongs to someone else, but the faster i go, the smaller it gets, the inside out feeling,
of living without rest.
Time continues without me, i know this is true
yet the fact that I'm lonesome doesn't account for the glue,
that keeps me to my shoes and my shoes to the ground
and the world that keeps turning, with its ups and its downs.
But it's getting smaller, not the world but my life,
horizons are shrinking, cut away with my knife.
That cuts cake for my customer, and slices my bread,
till one day it cuts me to my bones till its said;
She sleeps with the fishes,
he muttered that to a girl
So the poem made sense, but all in a whirl
my poem is splotchy and dusty with time,
that keeps shrinking and shrinking,
until the last rhyme.
Feb 3, 2015
Feb 3, 2015 at 11:57 PM UTC
If time is a tube,
my life is a spiral,
A snail shell,
Sea creature,
Peculiar and Viral
and I work hard and move fast and time gets quicker,
slicker, with the blink of an eye and the tapping of a finger.
The day off that i was supposed to have
but you cancelled it out
and penciled in other plans.
My time is meaningless, it belongs to someone else, but the faster i go, the smaller it gets, the inside out feeling,
of living without rest.
Time continues without me, i know this is true
yet the fact that I'm lonesome doesn't account for the glue,
that keeps me to my shoes and my shoes to the ground
and the world that keeps turning, with its ups and its downs.
But it's getting smaller, not the world but my life,
horizons are shrinking, cut away with my knife.
That cuts cake for my customer, and slices my bread,
till one day it cuts me to my bones till its said;
She sleeps with the fishes,
he muttered that to a girl
So the poem made sense, but all in a whirl
my poem is splotchy and dusty with time,
that keeps shrinking and shrinking,
until the last rhyme.
