My days fly by and nothing much gets done,
and all my days bleed into many years;
I used to stroll today I have to run;
on borrowed time I tend to all my cares.
It’s scary how I seem to trot in place,
accountability is drenched in stress;
afraid to look at lines upon my face…
I hate myself down to the way I dress.
For every plan I make I do my best…
to cross my T’s, dot all-important I’s;
no breaks, no fun, I don‘t get any rest…
my enemy is time and how it flies!
My nights are just as fast I do declare…
eyes up, eyes down; the race goes on from there.
Bryon D. Howell (firstname.lastname@example.org)
25th January, 2005