Late

Damn I'm late. Time moves slow but, sure as the devils footsteps. Ever so lightly 
as sin and time passes by. Damn I'm late. Time is creeping up on you like the 
sure death of cut wrists, and the running out  of air in this box shape life. Damn 
I'm running late, and there is nothing I can do about it, like the ones doomed and 
placed aside for the Pitts of hell. So why rush, why run, why wish, or hope. I'm 
already late. So I guess sorry would be my reasoning for lateness, and time 
would be my reason for my sorries.

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