all my life, I've been on the grind—
the hustle, the literal:
gears in the knee, rust in the hinge,
every morning a slow crank of the self-starter
that whines before it catches.

all my life, I've been looking for the time—
not the watch kind, the *when*:
when the debt breathes out,
when the mirror stops asking for ID,
when the song I started humming
finally resolves its own history.

all I see is the path before me—
and it's not a road, it's a groove
worn into the floor by the same step,
same weight, same stubborn left foot
that keeps landing where the right one already was.

grind grinds back.
time hides in between and inbetween
I stopped tuning years ago.
her curves just enough to pretend it's going somewhere
while the mileage and the wear, like a stutter.

but I keep walking—
because stopping is just the grind
no product,
time, yeah, I'm looking , yeah yeah
might be the second after this one,
the one where the engine catches clean,
the song ends right,
the path opens into a field
I didn't know I was allowed to enter.

all my life. my life, my my my
all my lifes, and she likes... .
I see—
in our own grind, in time
its own time,
its own crooked path
that keeps me moving
toward the maybe.