Photo by Ihor Malytskyi on Unsplash

Time lies, useless as a sword
in the lake. For one, there’s time,
and then, there is passage, as in
come, squeeze the cheeks of
this little tragedy
. Who will offer
the world their breast?
I’m sat, couched deep in tomorrow,
hands on the pulse. Tomorrow I will
flip onto the pavement and pound it
Into confession. Tomorrow I will
flip on the tele and watch nothing,
I will ride down to a cliff and say
nothing. Time waits there, watching
over us all like an empty house.

Truth be told, I still find most of my writing to be horrid or gross somehow. Posting them online is one way for me to try and curb this mentality. I need to be comfortable with the things I write.

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