On the verge, I think.
Still, how much time?
How many moments can one person waste?
Like the cellphone minutes we never use.

The sense of wasted time
makes little sense to one so busy.
Everyday comes with tasks.
Morning till night, life just is-

Why does my time feel better spent
when I sing a song or write a rhyme?
This is not considered productivity.

Something is pulling me apart.
Forcing me to consider that
what matters to me make not make sense
in a world so bitter.

Where unhappiness outweighs joy.

There are too many who refuse,
Too many who forget someone,
Too many who forget everyone,
For a new t-shirt or the latest compact disk.

Too much time in isolation.
Too much of a certain libation.
Too many echos of sounds we dread.
Too many books are left unread.

Wait- I want a moment to create!

I demand for my dollar and ninety-nine cents...
the penny!

Though it may sound strange,
with great urgency, I want the change.