Call it fate or a mistake But I'm always running late Whether it's in to morning work Or out to nightly dinner dates
Never have I been early At anything I do Except to say that I'll be late But that you already knew
It's been that way from the beginning Starting with my nine and a half month birth Inside of the womb, slept till way past noon For all that I was worth
Still feel I'm in my teenage years Late at growing up But I must say the way adults act these days Don't think I'm missing much
I may even be late for my own funeral But would that be a crime I ask who out there wouldn't care If they missed their day of dying
So call it fate or a mistake One or another, either way All I can say is that to this day I'm always running late
My words are vocalizations of what is cognitive reverberation upon my thoughts. They are vapours of what was unintelligible upon the surface, but sank to deeper reflections.
When they spilt on the white from inexistence to my voice in simplistic vocalization of verse. Then what collected in rendition collected forth.
Listen to my voice, now you are reading these last vocal mentions not in yours but the perceiving of what my voice resonates between. From thought to paper welcome to my words in my echo of my voice.
The smell of burnt moments is Haunting me. The taste of ashes, like a bittersweet friend, Savoured in my tastebuds, mixed with Chemotherapy
I used to be a young soul Only fourteen winters had tested me. But suddenly I had to discard the label of "Cheerful and promising youth" And replaced it with "dying"
It's funny how life works out some times, and in this case - How it didn't.