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rained-on parade Dec 2014
It's like sitting in a boat
and trying to set myself on fire: half-
hearted apologies made me a full
ocean to drown in.
A foot out the door only
lets the light in; some-
how I let you creep
in and now I don't know how
to let myself out
of a maze I didn't mean to design around me
more like a drawer full of clothes
that could maybe hide the shame I
tend to carry;
I am used to the guilt
of having had someone
fall in love with you like
it was an act of charity.
I was within you,
without you
ever knowing the way a heart works.
It is not muscle that'll atrophy of disuse,
it could only maybe
break like Schrodinger's vial
and **** you.
I sit here listening to the clocks of our house
out of sync:
sometimes I was always
a second too late.
I feel lost in these ticks
and these tocks
of all the time we lost; I
was within you,
without
you.
The Beatles' song I liked the least yet somehow got lost in my head.

And I just lost another muse.
Sarah Michelle Dec 2014
Hundreds of orders behind but never
never
never
Never quite
out of business. I cut my finger often
but my carvings are cut, always
must be.
I owe the people wooden hearts
to call their own.
And I owe myself a living,
living with clocks and statues and cabinets
for some purpose
known by God.
"wood carving"
Erika Nov 2014
Oh, darling.
Isn’t it ironic how the time is after us?
As if it wants to be noticed
As if it gives us a clue
The clock is ticking
Keeps on ticking and it hurts my ears
As if it wants us to say goodbye

Oh dear,
How I wish I could spend no time with you.
Not because I do not love you,
but because I do not want to spend my time
just to say goodbye to you.

-ECP
http://wittyamity.wordpress.com/2014/06/27/clock-is-ticking/
2ndBest Nov 2014
That isn't time on your hands
It's my blood all over your finger tips

If our lives weren't measured in numbers could we even say we had lived?

But the seasons would still change
Words would still seep into my veins

Like a river into the sea
Feeding me

Growing with hunger
Devouring

And I wonder if all the things
I could compare you to

Like the sun when it shines through the rain
Or a flower adorning a grave

Some how might prove
The love I would've gave to you

Now that we're nothing
I guess that means you could do anything

Not me

My time, so precious,
is slipping through my fingers
as permanently as the red on your palms will not wash off
Neon lights Oct 2014
Framed so poetically, there it stays
Never steps out of its flimsy boundary line but
it takes in everything with him
Inside a a static sea frame, there
roam all the wild guesses you
took:
all blue
all trapped, as erratic and diminishing as it was named.
Was you were to throw that time when
you tried to take to the sea
all into it?
There is no need to make me open my eyes to see something as obvious as this for a even a blind man can see it so crystal clear
in his pitch black vision
I'm closing my eyes and hope it stops
but

   I remember waking up
   somewhere in midnight term
   drowning in salty seas
   and making bitter coffee to
   recede the former taste.
   I found your diary on the sea
   shore with all of the demerara
   sugar sand
   disconnecting wires in my mind
   with overflowing water in the
   bathtub
   and getting electrocuted.
   Alarms when off buzzing with
   tick tocks
   I found myself with
   a pacemaker also
   your dying digital clock you had
   since forever, displaying
   blurs of phobia


Am I wrong to be trying
to breath underwater
Would it be right to despise
the blue sea that should soothes us
that turned grey for all our
fears we threw in without hesitate
I put all of my fears into this sea,
as a glitched version of your
deceiving eye hue,
demerara sugar on the edge of
your lips lingering in my coffee
chronomentrophobia oh thalassophobia,
yet I was to choose between icy cold ocean air and
falling into clocks' icicle-like hands.
This
is much of an error as it is
a tsunami washing us with a tide of heartache like
over sugared coffee with still bitter taste that melted into
my inner cheeks when I had ulcers
and
you wearing wristwatch while holding my hands.
I spent the day researching phobias and learnt that there are phobia for almost everything. I am not suffering from any of two of this phobias. I also spent the day learning about sugar types and pacemaker and coffee. Sometimes I think phobias are beautiful in some unexplainable ways.
Hayley Cusick Oct 2014
I will never be the perfect time piece.
always early, sometimes late.
I won't keep you detained
by my hands on your heart.

unless you want me to.

each second will seem longer than the last
and I can't promise that
it won't get tricky
being my wrist.
I'll be yours if you'll be mine.
Isabella Sep 2014
As the darkness fades, so do I.
Time tick-tocks,
On, sweeping away my bitter remains.

As the light teases my tearful eyes, I cry.
Time has stopped tick-tocking.
Off, nothing works anymore,
The now powerless mechanisms come to
An abrupt stop.

Likewise does my body, the whirring,
Pauses momentarily -
Catching their breath, and sighing into Action once more,
Perhaps for the final time.
Kai Sep 2014
The hands on a clock
are only in sync
twenty-four times a day.
The hands spend one thousand, four hundred, sixteen
minutes a day
racing around the clock,
trying to be together.
The arms on a clock,
like the arms of a son,
do not always mask one another.
Arms on a clock never leave.
Nature’s clock can tell time and kiss fathers’ foreheads
just long enough to leave a spot.
Around the sun-kissed spot is a receding hairline
and wicked-sharp eyebrows a mile away,
just above the dark eyes and weak smile.

Over time, history repeats.

Who knew that just a strong bond could create such similarity?
Soon, the same dark eyes will be found
just to the right,
below a receding hairline;
a replica of December, 1995.
The problem with dates
is that they are in the past
and the strings of time
that hold such father-son relationships together
fray until the ropes of hope
can no longer be held
on both ends.
The prompt given in class was to find a picture of our parents or grandparents from before we were born and write a poem describing it. Most of the students wrote literally what they physically saw in the picture. But, you'd be surprised at what can be pulled from a single photograph..
Kenneth Beasley Aug 2014
So now you're gone with happiness and independence.
I'm stuck with baggy eyes and these cliche *** romantic comedies.
From time to time I stare at clocks and think about what he had that I didn't.
I wear watches now, not bracelets.
2014 @KennyHoopla
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