How many times will I compose,
an untitled poem,
with less emotion?
How many times will I sit,
and stare blankly,
at the endless horizon?
How many times will I think,
of a beautiful plot,
but could not write the story?
How many times will I conceal,
the fury in my heart,
just to please everyone?
How many times will I keep
pretending to be fine,
just to survive the tyranny?
There maybe no answer,
for time is uncertain, time is vague
for those who could not wait.
Time is countless, time is erratic,
but for everything we do,
there is always time.
