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