the robber sneaks into my space of illuminating sadness trying to piece together the things that make me tick soon enough he thinks he has it figured out placing screws in the abyss, knowing that if I tock he did something wrong i want to tell him that nothing will work no matter how hard he tries my hands are broken and nothing will ever make them tick again as much as they can try as much as i'm already turning my cogs to start again the robber takes my broken hands but just for a bit "let me borrow them" he says when he brings them back they are rusty and used i want to tell him that it hurts to tick, how just because i was condoning the robbing; i wasn't accepting it. but i don't say a word i just croak a broken tock and let him rob me all over again
this wasn't supposed to be a **** oriented poem, but that's how it turned out. idk, there's a sequel as well.