That tiny voice
That always manages
To find his way into
My already very crowded mind
Whispers to me
Two seemingly simple words

He says;
“Hurry up”

I ignore it,
Suppress it

I have so much time,
Ive always had the time
Rushing things never was
Part of my nature

But
Those dreams that do
Jumping jacks inside
Of my brain
Are so much larger than
The amount of minutes
On a clock

Yet I remain seated
Resting comfortably
In the thought of tomorrow

I was twelve years old
Living inside of
One of my
Many tomorrows
When we wheeled an
Old woman through
Brand new
Front doors

Her eyes resembling
Those of crystal balls
Stuffed almost completely
With untold stories and
I became overwhelmed
With the sudden urge to
Know them all
Old gentle hands
Wrapping around
Young shaking ones

She asked me;
“What is it that
You want to be”

The word “writer”
Painfully forced its
Way out of my throat
Not knowing why
It was so hard to say
When she asked me
What Ive ever written
I fell silent

Sad eyes began to laugh
She told me;
“Go make memories
Instead of thinking up
Fantasies that live
Inside of your brain”

I soon began giving them
Homes on paper

When she left
I began mailing her
My houses of words
When I got her
Book of ideas
I began to understand

Because within every
Sentence lived a dream
And near every dream resided
An empty box that
She always thought she
Would have the time to find
A simple check to keep inside