time is a thief, but I am a murderer.
the clock hands are my noose, slowly strangling the life out of minutes and seconds as they flash by
eyes burn with regret as I stare, watching them die in the blue glow of a cell phone screen,
those seconds will never come back, but my remorse perishes with them, numbness taking over.
their blood on my hands, I ignore their cries, too sad to look up, too tired to feel pain.
in the war against laziness, no one is entirely innocent, we all play a part in killing time.
My Pocketful of Poetry 
Very good!! Love it!!
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