It's like I'm counting the hours to my suicide three year ago all over again.
Counting the moments before some unfortunate idea.
Living the days that are flying by, but as soon as the wait is over, time goes slow.
The realization settles in.
The unknown is now known.
The fear seeps into my blood, but I bleed inconsistently.
As the mornings turn into nights I wonder how much time really passed.
Was it 12 hours or 12 minutes?
Was is 12 minutes or 12 seconds?
How many moments have I spent wondering?
Do I wonder or think?
What's the difference I wonder..
I think there isn't a difference.
I guess my days arent the same as yours.
My days are mere seconds.
Each week an hour.
Each month a day.
Each year a week.
And yet I remember each day at the end of that week.
How many days do I have?
Not 2.
I only have 2 seconds left.
YOU ARE READING
Dreams Over Reality
PoetryA compliation of poems and skits. The skits are no longer being continued. Most poems are about me and the events around me. Read my story This is my story.
