In my own
time,
at my own
pace,
as I see
fit,
I will do
what I have
to do.
It is not on
your clock,
it is not at
your speed,
my time is
not subject
to the fancy
of your whim,
nor the wristwatch
of your pleasure.
The pressure
of time,
is like a
great stone,
pressing
down on the gears
of my clock,
slowing under the heaviness,
speeding
when the load is lightened.
My time
slows or speeds up
relative to
the activity required
and the
pressure being applied.
It a mental
question more than
one of speed,
although alacrity
plays its
part.
Molasses in
winter or bottled lightening,
sticky glue
or slick grease,
movement takes place when my internal
clock strikes
the right hour,
between
comfort and frustration.
Slow or
fast,
it all
depends,
on what the
hickory dickory dock,
is going on
with my interior clock,
it’ll get
done,
I’ll be
there.
In my own
time,
at my own
pace,
as I see
fit,
I will do
what I have
to do.
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