Time

[busker]

It takes Time to heal, and Time is money
Thus the term “mental health” is born.

Because it’s a short and it’s a beautiful life and Time is the
pusher of life and it pushes and it pushes
and life pushes back and there are billions of people all pushing each other
out of lines just to save some Time and it’s
stressful stressful STRESSFUL!

And you’re running and you’re running but
you’re never running out of Time because these are your golden years.
These are the best years of your life and Time is at the center of it all and
It’s the fourth dimension and It’s your fourth reason which makes
four out of thirteen which isn’t even half and you just
want it to
stop.

And so as you leave the expensive hotel
where the window curtains didn’t work and
they checked on you every fifteen minutes especially at night
and you woke up with a bloody nose one morning because if the air wasn’t dry and
if it wasn’t sterilized and sanitized and lifelessized you would want to stay forever;
at least until insurance realized you were a disgusting leech.

Really, how nice was it to steal some Time for yourself?
How nice was it to be far away from things like
pockets and phones and nooseable door handles and good music and sharp corners;
the things that made you want to die?

Do you still want to die?

“as you leave the expensive hotel
where the window curtains didn’t work and
they checked on you every fifteen minutes especially at night
and you woke up with a bloody nose one morning“

Is excellent
The rest of the poem meanders about in a fairly boring way. 
The ending is a damp squib. The wanting to die pops up randomly, and is a cliched bit of poetic hysteria anyway

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Advice being to work on the real meat in those lines quoted above and make the rest of the poem as observational