Minutes
• Written by ribs
Four hundred flat, eighty six thousand
A given allowance that each day allows us
Ponder it and think, how will I use it?
Usually abuse it, and often I lose it.
A few minutes spent, sweating for the rent.
Everything else puts me deep in the red.
Sore in my bed, impatient for death.
A few more minutes it'll be my last breath.
The future is the past, and when I look back
I weep for the millions of minutes that I had.
How did I use them? Where is the do-again?
Now I'm wound up, a fragile spool of thread
Weeping and mourning, eager for morning
Waiting to live in a place with no morning
Why did I do it? Man I was stupid
Life woke me up but I slept in and snoozed it
This isn't ancient, nor is it dated
This is me now, complacently lazin'
I know of my faults, all of my wrongs
Where is the force that will make me move on?
I'm wondering why, why can't I feel
Pain that is soon to become very real
I'm mystified, always pissed inside
Heart made of ice, never is liquefied.
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Frantically panicking, can it be a manic thing?
Heart can't deliver what a candle wick brings.
Wish I could buy back minutes that I had.
Facebook, YouTube made them die fast.
Self-control lacker, self-claimed slacker.
Life holds me close, and Hell can't grasp her.
Still I am a bird, that never flew south.
I bought a new laptop, sat on the couch.
Living in a nest that I never helped build.
Never learned to fly so I might as well chill.
King of all losers, mirrors appoint me.
Mother and father bird know I'm disappointing.
Living to die, and dying to live.
Addicted to easy and trying to quit.
Feeling at fault, wet hot salt.
I'm always succumbing when rest stops call.
Where is my drive? Is it alive?
Question the sky and receive no reply.
So I wait...maybe it's fate
Maybe this hate is gonna fade one day.
After all, God's got a plan for me
Even though I worry when He doesn't answer me.
I know that He's there, I know that He cares.
But why am I sad, hopeless, angry and scared?
It must be intended that my life is a dead-end.
Quick to be pissed when my future is mentioned.
The hands of a clock are never gonna fail.
Spinning on a cog only God can prevail.
Every second missed, never can be fixed.
Use what you got, what you got is a gift.
Four hundred flat, eighty six thousand.
It could be your last, so you better start countin'
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About the Artist
ribs
Member since February 26 2015