It's the little things. Second hands in school
  clocks like hammers striking anvils too loud.
  Bored seconds are forever. Years later are now.
  We argue about everything. I'm always the fool.

  I fret over this old typewriter's ancient keys.
  I look for perfect words to write perfect rhymes
  that refuse to be born. I miss the simple times,
  young me at bedtime begging god on my knees.