One to twelve, one to twelve,
clocks on the wall, one to twelve.
Circle circles, cycle cycles,
chains of time on the mind, stuck in this hell.
Back into the light, you've came here so many times;
deja vu flashes clues yet you still can't tell,
how we used to be able to reach thirteen but they've got us stuck in this cycle of one to twelve.

It's bothering me
That ticking on the wall
Can't you hear it
The more you focus
The louder it gets
Please, make it stop
So many other things
To be thinking about
That are all in the background
Because of this clock
The gears moving
Making me tick
I can't move, can't breathe
Can't do anything
Because that ticking on the wall
Will not stop
It only gets louder
The more you focus on it
Can't you hear it too?

the scent of something
familiar punches you in
the gut
and
you know that smell
very well--
some cheap detergent
on someone's clothes
that hurts your nose
and you try
not to fall down
nostalgia lane
again and stay there
for seven days
doing nothing but
writing and rewriting
wishing things were
different.

you're three years
older now
and you're still paying
for things but there's
no change yet.

you've heard theories
saying that time is nothing
but a concept,
that it is a mere creation
of foolish humans.
you close your eyes
and think
no no no no no no no

maybe if you repeat it
enough times the power
of suggestion will work

no no no no
     no no no
no no no no
no no no no no

time must come
and heal you

Tossing & turning on this twin size bed,
I wake up furiously ***** & hungry.
Unable to truly satiate either.
How do I turn this black light off?
Through poetry & delusion,
I remembered to brush my hair.
A small sign that madness isn’t winning.
I long for late night Waffle House, sweet ***, the ecstasy that is your laugh & deep sleep.
To doze safely in your arms as the sun rises
& be comfortable believing
That your love isn’t a dream.

My Name is Kayla  
It is 3:20am
Im in Killeen, TX

I am a clockmaker
not so keen on letting people
keep track of how I keep time.
I just do.
Effortlessly.
Without
Skipping
A
Beat.

The clocks wind down,
and soon the Earth will spin
tightly again.

How many passes do we need
to take a conscious breath?
How many paths?

The curtain lowers
before the curtain rises again.
I find myself staring at the red velvet,

the in between.

TIME has so much power and say on our day to day.
It tells us if we are early or late.
If we should be hired or fired.
Determines if we're morally correct or socially incorrect.
Our definition of TIME is far from perfect.
TIME is a song that has your radio station infected.
Can't change the station, can't escape it.
"Ugh! I hate this song!!!" singing along

We are the dysfunctional orchestra,
the composers of this catchy tune.
Composed by the abused watches we wear,
the guilty murderer clocks we hang on our walls
and by our notorious digital clocks in our phones.

Our favorite dance partner is 'Father Time'.
Dancing to the ticking and tocking.
Grooving at the speed of gears turning.
Steady rhythm; never speeding or slowing.


TIME does not exist, TIME keeping does. Oh silly humans......
measuring something that does NOT exist.

Sunday blues
like clockwork
                    tick
                           tock
      the girl is crying softly
                          humming a tune

I don’t know what hurt worse,
The tick-tock
And clock in all –

Or the waiting,
Just one more second,
The wanting,
One last second
And be ******
The wine stained sand
And buzzards atop ear;

Always to remind of how I’d
Loved and ultimately
Failed.