As I am falling backwards,
time and energy escape
my ever so desperate grasp

Yet I am made of matter,
it does not occur that I do
to anyone in the surrounding rooms

and I feel alone

The existence I am in space
only feels like another waste
of this mortal potentiality

and I am sorry

Blood and bone be my witness,
The heart is struck with great an illness.
Waste, is her name.
The time of day would go away just as it came.

Seeing the hours tick
And hearing my watch’s click,
Would give me more reason
To accuse my mind of high treason.

Its only duty is to obey me,
And yet my ideas drift, as though they were on sea.
Strange is this mind.
Too often cruel, rather than kind.

Blanks.
Wasted parts of space.
Lost in thought and in uses;
a blank canvas without any muses.

On that half acre of swamp,
there sits rotting wood, countless species of pests and bothers
history of love, hate, pain, and growth,
there sits a home, a house, a building, full to the brim,
with memories? Impulsive decisions?
Just a lot of "stuff"...

Right off the path the lawn sits untouched,
mossy patches, clovers and thatch, weeds and flowers,
ever since i was little they've been there,
ever since i was little Iv'e had such luck,

What happens when they sell that property, does the stuff go to waste?
That "stuff" was born of waste and now when i need luck the most, winters frost sinks those clovers much like the "stuff" in the ditch down the road,
But does my luck sink as well? Or will it grow and bloom next spring into something greater?