Jan 01

Ten Minutes

Ten minutes after midnight,
and I'm sitting in the moonlight.
There's so much that needs changing,
and not enough time in a year.

Where do I begin?
With mending my heart,
or healing my head?

There's just so much.
It's clogging my airway,
closing my throat.
Hiding my eyes,
and shutting down my brain.

Deep, ragged breaths,
the first of a new year.
Ten minutes after midnight.
Only six hundred seconds.

What have I done?
What haven't I done?
I'll take it slow,
this time around.

I've been left behind,
then found and loved once more.
I've fallen to pieces,
and put the puzzle back together.
I've lost, and I've gained.

I haven't moved on,
haven't moved past.
I haven't said my words aloud.
I've yet to take off my camoflauge.

Three hundred sixty four days
twenty three hours,
and fifty minutes.
That is all the time I have in a year.

Ten minutes after midnight.
Time's a wasting.
This year, I'll stop waiting.
Who needs permission anyway?