The best gift one could give to another is a clock
Simply because it is a constant reminder that;
nothing lasts forever; that our time is not limitless

The 'tick' and 'tock' that never stop warnes us in which
the time passes us by with or without announcement
For its nature is to remain constant and eternal

Maybe that's why us, humans, we tend to regret
the time we didn't cherish and spend well enough
—because our nature is never safe and sound

11:54

A clock glares upon me like the devious desert sun.
How many times have these hands made this voyage?
The sands seem so vastly changed from yesterday

11:55

A single minute vanished in midair so soon
Did that moment matter? Did it mean more than time?
Minutes together create time but alone stand hollow

11:57

Life slips away with this departing time
Still I sit here staring at a comical clock
The unforgiving frozen mess that is my world

11:58

A heavy awareness of time voids its' truths
This clock being watched laughs in secrecy
Moments stolen; memories changed by these hands

12:00

Another day finished and again air is stale
The time has arrived to surrender again
Seconds that will never come again have passed
Minutes that never came will come again today

I once read that
there is a wrinkle in time and
ever since I've sought to
parse out the clock's seconds and
feel every whisper of wind on
my skin and
sneak glances at sunrises through
blinds and
taste snowflakes and rainstorms and
wrinkle my nose at
good and bad smells in
Time's wrinkle and
gaze at moonlight twinkle.

you could start fires with the charcoal under my eyes
and i am so tired of telling people i’m tired
i’m exhausted
i barely get 3 hours of sleep
my mind is tangled with cobwebs that only seem to need dusting at night

i lay awake listening to the creaks of old aged furniture
and i sympathise
i know how that feels, buddy
my joints creak and they’re crisp as autumn leaves
i am surprised i haven’t broken any

alarm sounds at either 8 or 9
day starts an hour later
day continues
day persists until evening lets it rest
evening continues until their shift is over and
night falls
i’m so tired that my body has grown accustomed to it
i watch the time change and the clock tick;
i am so accustomed to it my heart has started following the same rhythm

night fell
a boulder on sunken shoulders
it is still falling and i am trying to carry such heavy weight
i think this is why our backs begin to curve as we grow older
we are crushed and crippled

does the sun still rise even if i don’t see it?
because all i ever seem to see is the darkness of night fall;
i wonder
who can love a clockwork heart?
tick, tock.
who can love a cobwebbed mind?

time to go and dust again.

My mind is like a clock
One that is maybe 4 minutes slow
(A good enough guess, I mean who really cares about 4 minutes?)
The hands are a bit wonky, pointing haphazardly at the number like its unsure
The numbers themselves are looking a bit rusty
But people know the basic layout of a clock
It's similar enough
It still makes the tick tock sound, albeit a quiet tick tock
One you'd have to strain to hear
But it's there, trust me
I am still useful
Someone will still need me
Someone will still choose me

I am a constantly changing tide, feeling one way in one moment and another in the next.
I wonder about the stars, burning meteorites that are slowly sizzling out.
I hear the clock, a sound of wasted moments in time tick, tick, ticking.
I see the good in people no matter whom; human beings do things for a reason wether its love, fear or safety.
I want to feel comfortable in my skin and for my brain to be able to come up for air.
I am a constantly changing tide, feeling one way in one moment and another in the next.

I pretend to stay calm while inside my mind the whirring windmill keeps turning.
I feel the need to be like a flower opening myself up to the suns positivity and blocking out the negatives.
I touch the little bird nestled in my chest urging it to fly to freedom.
I worry for events that may never happen riding the wave of panic until it dwindles.
I cry for moments where I didn’t take the leap, times of fear that limited me.
I am a constantly changing tide, feeling one way in one moment and another in the next.

I understand that it won’t always be ok and that during these times the little bird may falter.
I say that it’s going to be alright and that this moment shall pass.
I dream of the day the little bird finds its wings, finally taking flight.
I try to inspire others, teaching them to find their inner birds.
I hope to someday inspire others, to make a world of birds free to fly.
I am a constantly changing tide, feeling one way in one moment and another in the next.

Writing in the night
Waiting for the moments come
Writing for tonight
Waiting till the clock strikes one
And the papers, are shred to pieces
And the songs, are hidden away

These words are fond memories
These roads keep me safe
My pencil,
Keeps on writing
Writing till the days end
Writing just to pretend
Everything’s okay…

Time to let it go
Just once time has shown
Time to say goodbye
Ending this lullaby

I'm afraid that I don't have much to offer
the world - I've had this dream of being an
artist since I was able to dream, and
as the reality approaches, I
grow increasingly afraid. What if these
words, these hands, the things that come from these fingers,
what if they are not enough for this cruel
world for which I have nothing to offer? I
only offer something to the people
of this world, yet that isn't even enough
anymore. Depressed thoughts push me into
a cycle of pushing and being pushed
away by others, yet the cycle is
a circular behaviour pulled into
the swift motion of a line. It is a
ball bouncing between two walls for eternity;
an object always moving forwards yet
only through the same two points, in a constant
state of deja vu. The happy face of
this out of time clock seems to be one which
people like to use, being friendly no
matter what. This depressive face, bleak and
lifeless and filled with wretched longing, is
one which those who cluster around other
faces are eager to abandon. Their
friendship is superficial; their love is
superficial; their faces are superficial.
Everything dissolves into superficiality,
a fog of poison around my dilapidated
mind, and I am left, alone, with nobody to love me.