Time

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic
Time, what a strange phenomenon.

Submitted: January 29, 2017

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Submitted: January 29, 2017

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It runs pass you every hour.

You can’t miss it: it’s always there, reminding you that you’re still here and needs to do something before it’s too late. You are unable to ignore its existence unless you isolate yourself far away from civilization and people. You wish it could go back, you wish it could bring you back to the good old times.

But it can’t, and all you can do about it is mourn and feed yourself with regrets as tears never stop running down your wet rosy cheeks.

And despite your pathetic and pitiful image, it still doesn’t stop reminding you that you need to do something: you need to do something productive before you regret even more.

You force yourself to swallow the bitter feelings as your legs stand up, your chin still down though. Your eyes refuse to meet what’s in front of you because your brain is fully aware that your heart won’t have enough strength and courage to hold back the bubbling emotions.

But it doesn’t stop. It is coming toward you quick, so fast that you don’t even have the chance to look around and absorb every little detail, every little moment that you want to keep in order to cherish them later.

It is waving its hands in front of your face, yelling at you to do something, slapping your face to bring you back to reality.

It will never stop reminding you that you’re still not doing anything.

And the only option for you to escape this hell …

There are no escapes : we are all doomed.

You see your surroundings running all over the place,

Terror plastered over their face.

People are exhausted, but they will never stop.

They are rushing everything down,

And yet, all they do is having a breakdown.

Certainly from all the stress and terror,

The fear of doing many mistakes and errors.

They don’t want to live with regrets during their last few years,

So they do everything they can to make the best of memories for upcoming years,

But what will they cherish when all there is left is tears?


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