(Time Is Always Too Much or Not Enough — Same With Money, Freedom, and Everything They Dangle Over Us)
I can’t control the noise,
can’t mute the machine,
can’t stop the clock from eating everything in between.
Time runs fast when you’re broke and afraid,
runs slow when you’re stuck in the mess that it made.
Too much time to think,
not enough time to breathe,
too much month at the end of the money you need.
Freedom sold like a clearance rack lie,
“Work till you’re dead, then maybe you’ll fly.”
They say manage your time like time isn’t rigged,
like hours don’t stretch or collapse when you’re skinned.
Rich folks drown in boredom, poor folks drown in grind,
same clock on the wall, different prisons of time.
Money’s never neutral, let’s not pretend,
it’s either a leash or a loaded defense.
Too much and you hoard it, scared it’ll run,
too little and you’re sprinting just to stay done.
Freedom’s a word they love to repeat,
but only if you earn it, only if you compete.
Only if you behave, only if you comply,
only if you swallow the script and don’t ask why.
But here’s the thing they didn’t plan for me to see:
I can’t control them —
but I can control me.
I can choose the angle.
I can choose the frame.
I can pick which thoughts get fed to my brain.
I can slow my voice when the world says rush,
I can sharpen my words when silence feels plush.
Writing is where I take my power back.
I pick the pace.
I pick the point of view.
I decide what’s poison and what’s true.
I don’t have to swallow every fear they sell,
I can spit it back out and label it hell.
On the page, time behaves.
It bends.
It listens.
Money loses meaning mid-sentence.
Freedom stops being a carrot on a stick
and starts being the moment I decide what I think.
I can’t control inflation,
wars, or greed,
can’t stop the hunger of systems that feed.
But I can decide what lives rent-free in my head,
I can write myself alive instead of misled.
Time will always be too much or not enough.
Money will always be too tight or too stuffed.
Freedom will always be promised later, not now,
dangling just out of reach, somehow.
But my voice?
That’s mine.
And when I write,
I choose the rhythm.
I choose the lens.
I choose which thought gets the final sentence.
That’s not escape.
That’s control reclaimed.
And in a world that profits off panic and doubt,
choosing your own voice
is the loudest way
to opt out.