Killing Time

I sit here, killing time. every second Dies
knowing it didn’t make a difference to
A life sitting in a chair waiting for some
Miracle to happen �" otherwise known as
Hope �" fragile hope. as every second tried
Telling Me, as it passed away unheard,
Insulted Even, that I couldn’t be bothered
to listen To it’s wisdom, because I was
Too damned afraid to do anything That
Might upset the status quo, the comfort
Zone Called home, that I’d wrap around
my soul in a vague attempt to be at peace.

 

Reviews

[Michael G.]

Well written piece, sir.
I found myself personally relating to this. And isn't that what writers want their readers to do?