9:32 pm. I'm typing this up.
I wasn't sleeping and then came up with this poem.
But that's the story I'll tell my grandkids.
You're already 4 lines into this poem, and I can tell you're bored.
Well sit back and let me waste your time.
Let's waste your time like America wastes money on wars they shouldn't be in.
Time is a vice. It slowly, but surely, wastes second by second, minute by minute, hour by hour and it doesn't matter to you now.
You're only 5 years old; you don't even know how to say mom or dad yet.
You'll wake up, eat your fruity loops or your cheerios, get in the car with your mom or dad, and head to daycare with a smile on your face.
Sooner or later, time will pass by and you're already 10 years old. Sure, there are a few new changes, such as a word hated across the country known only as "homework" and you also start to feel more for the little red-haired girl who lives across the street from you.
But the cycle will stay the same, for a few more years and then you'll enter the hell-hole known as high school.
Where only the physically strong survive and where the 9th grade girls think they're ready for a relationship.
You'll survive that twisted insanity and maybe head off to college, or maybe you'll go straight into work.
The cycle still stays the same. And then you'll turn 50.
Mid-life crisis, here I come!
It will stay the same for years and years, until your kids decide to put you in a nursing home, where you'll contemplate your life.
You'll look back on all the good times and the bad times you had over the years.
You know something's missing, but you can't figure it out.
It's not your fault, since Time is the one to blame.
Time makes us grow old and then eventually die.
Time is the problem, but we can't stop it.
Just like how we can't stop that woman next door named Nature.
I can see you now, hooked up with tubes connected to your body to keep you alive.
You live for a few more days and then you pass on to the next life.
Your funeral day is here. You're lying in a casket, with your head propped up on a pillow, like being served on a silver platter for a dying hyena.
Your family, friends and loved ones come to your funeral and mourn the loss of you.
But you leave them with hope. Hope that they will see you in the next life.
Your gravestone reads "Time is a vice. It slowly, but surely, wastes second by second, minute by minute, hour by hour and it doesn't matter to you until you die."
Some random quote you came up with in your younger years.
As you are being lowered into the ground, your soul is raised up to Heaven.
You get to meet the disciples of Jesus Christ and get to take a selfie with Judas.
You ask God "Where did the time go?"
But you know the answer to that question, and so God doesn't answer it.
10:10 pm. I'm finished writing this poem.
Thank you my friend. Hope to see you in the next life.
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