Sonnet before Eight

In thirteen minutes I will write a rhyme
That speaks about the struggle in my mind
To open up the vapors in my chest,
Replacing them with fresh, inspired breaths.

Four minutes passed, and still I struggle on
To meet my goal of writing this brief song,
Arbitrary judgment, self-imposed,
Self-flaggelating ego, pain exposed.

With only seven minutes left, I write,
To shine inside this darkened cave a light,
And see what dripping stalactites have grown
Within this painful chest where echoes moan.

Four minutes left: I will put off this rhyme
To live the rest the day enslaved by time.