Time

My skin was evenly woven, but once in a while, clumps were bitten off by the house watch dog. I lay on the bed with a missing eye and never forgotten alibis. At least I wasn't physically tossed, but my mind bites. I transformed into clay and let other hands smother and suffocate me. I let their palms even out my body, making me truly understand and empathize with the other pottery. Pottery which now stands on the shelf and has been handcrafted since 1997. The pottery pots are in an even and numerical line. Sometimes they make me smile and once in a while I do cry. Lost moments know me better than I can say I recognize myself. Does time, do moments physically hold importance? Is it just there to mentally sustain the lost and unrecognized? Is it alive, so we can create a face and a perception in our own minds? Do we love, what and who we truly don't know, or understand? Familiarity is a lie in my eyes. We are molded, bent and chipped in a long line of what we call time. Question the little things and maybe we will understand the build. Do our minds really get blocked, or do we just lose our ignorance-- blinders which blind our sight from the unknown. Are we most happy when life makes sense, or are we truly happy to be free and roam? Sad to say, we know what's coming, because our judgment is bound to f**k up again. Maybe that is the beauty of world/time travel. These are our greatest memories. This is where I learn to love the unknown. This is where my skin is woven and sewn.