Time doesn’t weigh much — even when you’re fed
every second of it. Food for thought piles up like
leftovers, a full plate of ideas you never quite digest.

We serve our dreams once they wake, laid bare beneath
an open space —hoping stars will shine back on what
we once believed in. But from a distance, everything
looks so harmless — get close enough, and it burns
through our skin. Dreams, truth, love — they all come
with scorch marks when held too long.

Time steals slow, but mistakes move fast. You step
wrong and feel it instantly — unless your pride is
a glass slipper, and you’re too enchanted to feel the
crack. Because it’s one thing to know what you’re
not — you’re not a clock spinning past reason,
you’re flesh and fatigue, and this life… it winds down.

A broken clock still gets it right twice a day — but a
broken person has twice the time to bury themselves
or choose to rise and heal.

Can’t hold onto anyone’s time—
 their life is out of your hands.
But still, we all take these
   steps of being so etched in
somebody’s memory—
     like footprints in the sand.

I keep counting all the time I
  tried to hold onto the past,
 without a watch in my hand.

Watch the moment pass—
 tense, sinister in tenacity.
  A voracious hour—
      feeding off  what I didn’t say,
    what I left behind.
      Art quietly buried in my mind.

And all those things I thought
were gone— they love to
  reappear as a new regret.

Still transparent. Still off-putting.
But put off those mistakes—
  and put on the lessons.
Be beautiful in your time.
Not perfect. Just worth building.

They’ll write it down— the inspiring
  story of how you rose,
 even when time kept slipping
      through your hands.

I'd feel like a stranger at my own funeral-
who's that in the box, dressed better in death
than I ever managed in life?
Better than my quiet attempts-those empty rehearsals
at suicide.

Was this the last chance I had left?
Even in death, my voice isn't heard-
nor the screaming ones trapped inside my skull.
Even my ghost wouldn't believe it's dead,
still hoping the lives I tried to save
might pay my way past the gates,
buy out my debts.

But what if there's no heaven waiting?
What if another kind of hell greets me instead?
What if I never see my old friends again-
never laugh without fear,
never smile without pretending?
What if I never stop
being so ******* afraid
so strangely ashamed
to feel nothing,
to be numb to even shame itself?

All I wanted
was to be born again-
not into some perfect life,
but one that wouldn't lead me
back to searching for another end.
And isn't it strange-
how only in death do we see our regrets
with such clarity?
Because there's nowhere left to run from them
once we get
to the end.