I want to write.

I have the time.

Don’t stop now.

Not this time.

It’s getting harder.

Been a long time.

I should do more.

I don’t have time.

I need to stop.

Unlike the time.

Just take a breath.

There’s no time.

I’m running out, around, and down.

I’m running out of time.

Eighteen years, will it ever get better?

Standing here, is it love or a letter?

I want to write, and I want to get better,

Now, will someone show me 

how to take time as it comes exactly?

Learn to adapt and react and respond to the multitudinous calamity and ever-changing sanity 

that is just my own reality, 

or is it all a fantasy?

Is this act of typing and writing 

and coming up with words and phrases 

another way of turning all the blank pages 

so that I can say that I’ve done something right?

What—wait—god!! I’m running out of time..