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Bad poetry: These times

I have always been the one
when trouble starts, to cut and run
I always know when a thing is done
I always know when the time has come

So, what about this time?

Why do I still linger here
Where all I do is sweat and swear?
Why have I made it my career
To dress in guilt and live in fear?

So, when is it my time?
Is this what I do with my time?

Each time I begin to find my voice
I get distracted by these toys
Where they exult, where they rejoice
I find a cage devoid of choice

So, what the hell is time?
What, in Hell, is time?

Filed under: Poetry | | Comments Off on Bad poetry: These times

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