What makes the cogs in a clock turn?
What makes a wick continually burn?
What makes these feelings so hard to unlearn?
As I sit on this couch
Scrawl out these words
Waste this ink
While the clock keeps turning
and the flame keeps burning
the only thing I'm learning
is that things
take
time.
Million of letters
within millions of words
within millions of sentences
upon millions of pale blue lines
upon thousands of pages
and what?
You can't make a beach with a jar full of sand.
You can't hum on a kazoo and call yourself a band.
You can't break your legs and then rise up and stand.
Things
take
time.
So all these things keep going
but my pen is never slowing
my problem is with knowing
when to life my hand and
stop.
