A poem by Bethany N. Bella

TIME, I used to run.
Run away from TIME, I used to, too.
But now I have to sit sticky in TIME
Waiting for the right TIME to come knocking.
I don’t know when, how, or how long it’ll take for him to show up.
I don’t like to be kept waiting, but weight I must add and wait I will do.

I never knew what to do with TIME,
So I started picking out the books he liked and the projects to start,
Started messing with timers and timetables and tabled my other needs because I didn’t know what else to do with my TIME.

This TIME, I can’t measure, meter, or manage TIME.
I can’t block it off, squeeze it in, fold it up — TIME is holding me back and wholly me now. I am but ample amounts of TIME.

Call me a clock, or a crook because I stole TIME away.
You can have him back, someday.
So now I sit knee-deep, knees-bent, knees-broken in TIME, waiting or weighting for some hour of release.

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