Lately I’ve been In search of an answer,
Digging deep into metaphysics .
To find that time isn’t real Only clocks exist.
The world is fake,
And you are living a lie.
Aren’t you supposed to die.
thumbs cock back black glocs
heat’s on head’s gone
pull it for the crack rock
heaving thick and heavy haze
white and green all mix with red
ticking tendrils round the numbers
seconds are fast after taking life
over grains of time suicide
untouched potential left so
in the wake of pooling blood
tick tock tick tock and time turns the tables
clocks give more gut rot than one-fifty-one
panic over life’s deadlines disables
the mind from seeing anything but guns
and chaos and filth under fate’s tight spun
web of lies keeping eyes fixed on fables
of flies that cannot overpower fate
though they try but have you really tried to
take flight mister fly or have you simply
seen your friends die and put away your wings
acceptance is the simplest way to die
The rooms remain empty:
Voices echo in the halls
from the lips of strangers.
Fairy tales into the night;
thoughts raising my spirit
from beneath its dreams.
Sleep eludes me again;
the new moon marks my heart,
condemning my wayward soul.
Clocks no longer ticking;
extinction hides in darkness
waiting for my eyes…to close.
The man who had all the time in the world
For whom the clocks stopped ticking
Didn't know what to do with himself
And soon enough
Not an amount of time you can measure
But soon enough
He prayed for death
And to have less time
Who was born with all knowledge in his head
Went straight for the razor
And cut this whole thing short
the thought of you is carried to excess
the bonds we once shared
once the warmest part of the year
took its end.
i vowed to love you until the end of time
but the clocks have stopped long ago
I will open the door
please, come in
look around, tell me, what do you see?
Are the golden gates as beautiful as you thought?
Sit down beside me, on this ancient grass
The trees around us hold this together
The same way golden clocks bound us
No one has seen this place before
Perhaps I'm making a mistake
If I trust you with a gun
In this world made of glass
The abyss will gaze back
Good luck handling that
Once you look, you're trapped
In this place I lock myself up in
Where the outside has no power
The answers are within
Are you ready to see?
So few ever open their eyes
I'll hold your hand and show you
Sounds your ears could never hear
Open your eyes, open your mind
You don't need anything else
This is what's behind
The wires, the gears, the turning clocks
Take a look at the hidden mechanisms
Tell me you're not scared
This insanity, forever growing
Like the evenings when we sat for tea
Evenings... were they mornings?
All of this to say
That I want the stars in a glass of champagne
Read books that make no sense
Walk down roads that lead to nowhere
Allow someone to hold me, finally
Dissociating the words, the meanings
Staring at the ceiling
Teach me to let go of reason
It's getting late tonight.
Big Ben's hands have been twisting viciously for hours
And somehow ended up around my neck.
They say timing is everything and lucky for me
The moment I laid eyes on you all the time
In your hourglass figure froze in my mind.
I want to start things off right because
When I saw you from across the room I wanted to get to know every
Millisecond of your history so that the mysteries in your smile became
My new reason to appreciate antiquity.
I can be your ancient artifact.
In fact, I'll be whatever you want me to be so long as it doesn't involve me
Trapped in revolving doors that prevent me from your proximity.
I need to know the inner workings of yourself shine as brightly as your physical presence
Because you might be pleasantly surprised to find out my genuine intentions.
I want to get close to you.
Break through the refurbished armor you fundamentally meshed to your being
In order to prohibit Cupid's bow from poking holes in your aorta.
Understand I have every intention of keeping your core in tact
But I need to get to know your heart to see if we're a match.
Your struggle humbles me- You're my Atlas.
With ten delicate fingers protecting all the world's wonders
Cuddling Mother Nature as your own new born.
I want to know your mind can dance as elegantly as your body can.
Because my brain's signing up for ball room dancing classes
And could use a well-versed partner for the Waltz.
And there's nothing more beautiful than two minds
Marching reciprocally to the tune of one drummer's heartbeat.
Let me meet the symphony responsible for your eloquence.
So my ears know where to discover your reckless intelligence when I'm losing mine.
I hope you have a sweet tooth and never resort to shortcuts.
Because when you've passed the point of no return but decide to venture back
All I can offer you is heartfelt motivation and handfuls of Hershey kisses.
I know I may sound foolish and I'm sure the odds are against me.
Due to countless attempts where men request
Bedroom conquests that leave little room for imagination.
And it's hard for me to disregard your reservations
Given the nature of your past encounters with individuals who'd rather
See none of you with the lights off than all of you in the spotlight.
So let me approach this conversation differently-
I want to be your heart's only conqueror.
Pick open your cardiac locker with my sincerest approach
And approach you in the kind of way that eliminates the word No from your vocabulary.
Let's become Grandfather clocks and tick tock together through the end of time
Approaching eternity splendidly through clockwork.
We can redesign what it means to be inherently inseparable
If you allow me to frequent your grudges and pitch a tent on your battle scars.
We'll indulge in witty dialogue about your inner thoughts to demonstrate
My ability to take you seriously while giving your lips upward mobility.
I want your soul on speed dial in case of emergency.
Because if I need a saving grace, your unparalleled energy is my only hope.
Please, let me see the alarms explode in your eyes as they have in mine.
We're running out of time.
Sky blue eyes
As clear as the lies
From filthy guilty crimson lips.
Her icy hands trying to grip
She couldn't hold my burning gaze
I threw my love into the blaze.
To both our past lives
I watch them returning to dust.
One last embrace of fiery lust
Reset the clocks and walk away
But I'll smell her flowers someday.
I've gorged my insides outside
Stuffed them full of tryptophan and solidarity in this plague
Dripped acid on my laced lungs
To hold some type of shape to their lackluster position
Stitch my teeth on paper airplanes
Promise your little girl you'll send her to the moon
The dentist to fix her broken teeth
To tape kisses on her open wounds
It was never enough to wake me when you left
Because I was right
And we were all falling down
As our youth was shot up
Fill my bones with your time, let these clocks rip my eyelids off
So all I can see is you walking away
Wearing my last love letter on your palms
Go, fly, be on the moon
I'll meet you there in a few
After the inception of the new, high speed way,
luck beheld a continuation that increased
velocity even more. Stores, beginning through
optimistic (sails, sales) filled with industrious
wind currents, began to perish, because the dust
crept in to forget and never start again. Trade
was offered from one to another, likely to achieve
practical results, but the consequence was a loss
of heritage. All that had gone before stumbled
out the door into darkness and surcease. Absence
was abandoned as the light walked away into
the desolate remains which, in only a few days,
left the city, and commerce, stalled with people,
everywhere, standing quietly like burlap dolls.
The sound was pouring light outward from its
eyesight to remember something other than that
which had been lost, inserted and devoid; the
former ideas drifted to become a trace of the new
prestige. Communication overwhelmed the hope
though hope endured. A collection of machines
was learning to live together, and to attend night
clubs with astonished amounts of stress arguing
against the comprehension which insisted that
importance was captivating the subjects of change.
Always, they were slinking into the circuits,
coloring the programs with a steady pace that
receded to neglect functionality. Those tired of
hearing about the clocks winding down were not
escaping the clever snares set for their awkward
feet and kept among delicate fossils of brilliance.
It might have been a global fever, or perhaps
everything just ceased to operate. Some strike by
electrons offered them the predicament, and
the opportunity, returning them to a simple form
of human sentiment, so that smaller gatherings
arrived at the significance of a tale while burning
things on sticks above the campfires flickering
along the coast and seen inland at the base of
distant mountains. Simple arts included using
furniture and hot air balloons driven by stainless
steel burners. Talking too often, and to a point of
foolish interruption, demonstrated the frailty of
coordination where zeros and ones meant,
essentially, that a point had been made and lost,
although fighting confusion was denied by context.
Some of this was mistaken by preconceptions that
created impractical situations, and other things
were long walks glued to comfortable boots or