there was a clock. tick, tock.

it's an endless ticking. consuming me. i can't write, i can't read, i can't sleep. tick, tock.

i hear her voice inside my head. sometimes she screams. tick, tock.

i can't stop thinking. poetry comes in short, five-syllabled lines, always there and never gone. tick, tock.

reverberating tones; beeps, hums and clicks. keyboard tapping, heavy breathing. tick, tock.

one day, it stopped.
it's going to be okay.

people cover me in a thick blanket of comforting words and tense remarks, biting at my skin and making imaginary bruises, tender to the touch.

i'm still here. i was never gone. my wings are taking me nowhere and my shoulder blades ache from the weight, but still they hold on.

i walk on the footpath of a smoke-filled congested road, always invisible but never unseen.

desire for something i don't know. but it's there. never gone