i’m thinking about how time flies
and of my timed comebacks and replies,

the juice i had, left with my will to die
and left me to keep wondering why
it was when i’d think about the grave that my mind was alive.

now i’m up seven days a week and have to schedule when to cry,
i catch myself feeling lonely, i miss my old mind.
my words used to mean something, now they disinherit my pride
my writers block is at an all time high

by Mariam Ramahi