my time scatters, my time, it scatters in songs that stifle me, and poetry that points and laughs, ceaselessly.
m time is scatterd unto writting things I could hardly manage to spit out.
my time is scatterd away from friends and school work, my time is scatterd in very better tasting coffe, and tears that will not arive.
my time begs me for locomotion.
my time begs me for bits of ease.
but I know better.
I know I was born better and havey and clutterd with end.
and mostly,
mostly my time begs for lovers and I laugh at my time and tell it that lovers do nothing but burn the soul.
my time disagrees quietly and helplessly as we sit together and read more and more poetry.
eventually
very eventually, my time and I, after a full day of heart burning ache.
lay on the bed and go to sleep.
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