Or not. This worked written out longhand in my widely-varying handwriting. I don't know how it'll work in [pre]formatted [/pre] text. This is a concrete poem, and depends a lot on spacing and line breaks--assuming it "works" at all, it probably won't unless you have your browser expanded out all the way and a small font size.
You said, "It is too much,
all this being." How true,
but could you provide a
context? "This. This moment,
when I hadn't had the time to adjust
to the last one. How can I stop
to tie my shoe, let alone smell
the roses, when they fly past so quickly
I'd get scars from the thorns?"
I know what you mean. "Do you?
Really? It's time that
seperates us from the beasts.
I've never seen a dog that knew
its birthday, and if it did, a dog
would never lie about it. And
It's killing me." Time? Dogs?
this skin. "This watch, these clothes,
in a coffin. I might as well sleep
dying. There's no I'm dying, you're
humanity. Even if escaping your own
one single day, stretching you could hold
far into the next day it out so
never stopped being now, that it
tomorrow would catch up your
with you. Your body knows,
but it's not the body that
kills you--it's the mind. Only
a sentient being dies every day.
humanity kills you." Animals die,
too. Look at your sister's
pet rat. It's not moving much.
"It's dead, everything dies, but
only we are dying now.
The second you see tomorrow
coming, it's too late to dodge.
A dog doesn't die until it's dead.
You--me--we're dying now.
We can't close our eyes,
because we opened them.
time That's what the gift of
our hands, cost us--we burned
shaped by you can't help it--you're
seeing tomorrow, time, because you,
How can you live let it carry you.
the full of your life? when you see
choose between eyes open or we have to
closed, before we're born, before eyes
we're wound up, like little watches,
or there's no justice. I wouldn't
have chosen this, I know that,
I wouldn't have chosen this sweeping
second hand. Dogs don't wear watches."
But dogs don't choose. "Did
I choose? Did I?"