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.