Brief prose and poetry lacking other categories... |
Dear Time, She scrawled upon a wrinkled page. You expect me to treat you respectfully? I'm not yet at a ripe old age Having zero knowledge of what I might become. I have no happy memories to thank you for Only puzzles, painful conundrums, burning questions, Untold motives, endless unanswered prayers. Past lies tangled, no wisdom to be drawn, Future fades foggy, unknown dangers hiding in shadows. You expect gratitude When all you do is suck lifeblood out of me. Another day down the drain, Another failure, another missed opportunity. You and I are enemies β I end up killing you more often than not. Yet there you are, standing in front of me, ghastly, beckoning. If you are a Father, you're a deadbeat: Never there when I need you, yet always lurking, haunting me. What point is there in addressing you As if you know anything? You are cold, insensitive, inexorable, impersonal. Why personify something so uncaring? I'm not your child. I have a long road ahead of me, And you are my enemy. Instead of killing you, I will make you my slave. Never to be, Yours truly. She threw down her pen Took scrawled paper in her hands Crumpled it up Flushed it away in the toilet. A brain drain, a reset, a deep breath of air: Life sprouts anew once exaggerated emotions overflow. Now, real work begins. 34 lines, 230 words, free verse. Written for "Note: 48-HOUR CHALLENGE : Media Prompt Deadl..." |