Twisting of Time

Sometimes, I get into a strange mood. Poetry helps.

Time
Itches. Scratches. Burns.
Pulls one way then the other
within my skin.

Prickly thorns of yesterday
sprout, then grow in again.
Pulling, twisting, warping, shaping
me into something I'm not.

Tomorrow tugs and twists
wrenching in and out
tying my skin in knots,
twisting until it tears holes.

And finally,
finds its own way in.