poetry like a game of scrabble.

I want to drink words that have aged like a fine wine.
     It has been awhile and I do not quite feel myself.
     But...how could I be anyone but me?
     Maybe if I could hear the world in another's words,
     I would find myself.

I want to slow down time and to stop wishing for the rewind.
     I keep missing things and I know it but I am helpless.
     Why is that the important things travel fastest?
     How is it that they feel heavier?
     Perhaps, to force us to drop what does not matter.

I want to hold the seconds tighter as if they could be mine.
     My arrogance tells me I would be a better clock keeper.
     ...As if that will fix my problems.
     Changing time will not teach me to use it well.
     Wisdom comes, it seems, from failing.