I am more than ever before
A house is nought but the sum of it's parts
A day is but a set of hours
A year, a system of days, each bundled up with others and given names
All a decade is is a repeat of the day before
counted over and over without ceasing until the sun is satisfied
The sum of my story seems to be held in a moment of holding my tongue
My voice too caught up in the way I was perceived to make the tough call
and get ballsy for a moment
I, in all my days, have yet to change a line in the story in which I evolve
The autobiographical oration all told in the gentle jots of someone else's hand
My own thoughts kept in a private book
all cloistered in my head
The sum of my story is contained in the footnotes of someone else's tale
It doesn't matter whose
Only that I have always been a supporting character
My presence forgotten the second I had outlived my usefulness in the scene
My past, my present, my future
All composed of, "The time I did what-not with so-and-so"
Is it only right that I feel as though my life time starts and stops in the palm of a hand?
Whose hand, it doesn't matter
Only that today my progression needs to alter it's course