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Time is Relative
I refuse to sit here
and remain trapped between the hands of YOUR clock
that move so slowly.
Moving so slowly and leaving me stuck.
Those same hands that passed and wasted dreams.
The time that has passed between those hands in the round face of your wristwatch chased away the innocent imagination.
It forced me to believe that the blood
was not the same
fluid blood that pushed its way through my veins.
Not the same that passed through YOUR grey matter
and internal organs
that moved to the same, mundane, senseless rhythm.
The hands that decided your fate
and moved with so much less restriction.
Now, my time is pointlessly truned into an inferno
of burning seconds
and words I pretend didn't hurt.
A shower of bullets and glass
fed by your very own oxygen.
And grey matter,
counterfeit and only relative to the small space between.
The wicked lies cast sinking ships into the ocean
before they could be saved.
And the universe never had the chance to hear them.
Those lacerations were rare
until the world was unfair to you.
And lacerations from the glass words you spoke
shattered the little girl hidden inside.
Still, that blazing time struck me with such disbelief.
The adolescent, undeveloped thoughts and actions,
being told they were wrong
before they had a chance to be true.
Smothered and misunderstood
grew the mind of an angel
that remained malleable
like the purest gold in your hands.
So you shoved a crayon in my hands,
and told me to stay inside the lines.
Your predigested ideas
were fed to us through a straw.
Your sugar-coated words confused us.
But as time passed,
we saw the curtains open
and the sky clear
and the truth reveal.
We became our own people.
The scars did not define us.
But still I wonder...
Why would you want to change me?
Could you, if you tried?
It may take time
as it did before.
But as you showed me,