Time Poem by Chelsea Crisman

It's five thirty in the morn.
My thoughts filled with scorn.
I could just weep,
From denying myself any sleep.
Time is leaving me,
Five thirty-three, it can't be.
A week has gone by.
A week that seemed to fly.
My wrists drip red,
Cleansing my heart of hatred.
Emotions are fleeing.
This soul is screaming.
I'm broken to the core,
For my life holds no savior.

Now it's nearly six.
The time to 'pick up sticks'.
This life is in a lull.
I can't sleep it's so dull.
Blue blanket, blue pen, blue pants.
My mind wanders as if in a trance.
Brown door, brown chair, brown wall.
What happened to the bright colors of fall?
Is it winter already?
NO! It can't be!
It was just September!
When did it become the end of December?
Time has left me too far behind.
I fear this life is no longer mine.