Tim E.

I’m fascinated by the Now
But have a hard time sitting in it
Time is my story, and there’s not enough of it
My story, my crutch, my prison
Blame is how I’m rewarding you, Time
I’d do what I want to, what I need to
If only I had more of you.
I fill you full of junk, tripe, distraction
And blame you for leaving me with my tasks undone
My desires unmet, my heart still closed.
I don’t leave enough of you. I use you
As an excuse for not practicing,
For not doing the loving thing a husband should
Laundry, dishes, fixing the mailbox
Oh, time! I’d owe you an apology
If you were ever there at all


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