It’s not for you—
but to remind me
how I see.
not the one
who doesn’t dare—
to call it out.
fortune to tell,
past and present—
intervene at ten.
believe— I’d be
not just precise,
but honest.
and you know—
it’s shining through
the cracks.
The light—
won’t just stop
like a clock,
left on the wall,
hanging—
in stillness.
tickless—
ask why?
choose to stay,
watch it twice,
knowing right—
_so why—_
the illusion
makes it count.
_It’s just reckless—_
I know,
but love freckles.
Oct 26, 2025
Oct 26, 2025 at 1:41 PM UTC
It’s not for you—
but to remind me
how I see.
not the one
who doesn’t dare—
to call it out.
fortune to tell,
past and present—
intervene at ten.
believe— I’d be
not just precise,
but honest.
and you know—
it’s shining through
the cracks.
The light—
won’t just stop
like a clock,
left on the wall,
hanging—
in stillness.
tickless—
ask why?
choose to stay,
watch it twice,
knowing right—
_so why—_
the illusion
makes it count.
_It’s just reckless—_
I know,
but love freckles.
Playing with words and time, I tried to make something simple yet challenging. If you want to understand what I’m showing here, you’ll need to imagine, visualize, and question every word. It has many layers, and a curious eye will find them—especially an ADHD-tuned one.
I wrote this poem to let my mind explore and associate—to emphasize nonlinear thinking and contradiction. Don’t trust the words; trust me instead. Believe I had something to say, and that I spent time choosing these words, these sentences. Maybe the language control and precision aren’t perfect, but hey—not all clocks are perfectly synchronized.
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