TIME.

Time is gold, and I'm afraid of running out of it.

When the Sun rises,
signalling it has arrived,
here comes another;
a day�"24 hours.

Makes me wonder,
how each of us gets the same amount,
but some asks for more,
some are content.
I fall somewhat somewhere in a middle,
thanks to my unstable bridge of a mind.
Stuck in between,
wanting TIME to fly over,
like a breeze of cool air,
like warm spurs of moments.
Here's the part I contradict with my own self,
I ALSO NEED MORE TIME.

Then,
even if I reach out,
both of my palms,
as much as it can hold,
the sand of TIME would still seep through the gaps between my fingers.

Time is cruel,
but indeed,
Time is gold.

Author's Note

I guess you can call this a freestyle kinda poem?? I'm not really trying to rhyme or anything. Maybe this you could call it Spoken Word -ish poem?? I'm not even sure haha.