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Cat Fiske Apr 2016
Clocks spin round and round,
time goes on like the days,
as if  nothing gets better,
day by day,
Beau Scorgie Apr 2016
I've been lost in time
these last few months -
with clocks that won't tock
and days that won't stop.
And I was happy.
Or maybe a little too comfortable.
It's all the same -
because the sun won't always shine
and you can't stop the rain.
But time will always find you
and I'm here now.
So where are you?
Are you hiding too?
Running from the monotonous chime -
the one that dictates your waking
and your slumber -
your not so silent slumber.
Trapped within the walls of time,
is this living?
Or is this death?
It doesn't matter,
the trees will still grow
either way.
And I'm here now -
I wear bells now -
to throw that monotonous chime
out of time.
So where are you?
Do you wear bells too?
I don't weep -
no, I don't cry.
Because tears don't harmonise
with the monotonous chime.
Brianna Jan 2016
One day I hope you stop staring at the clocks you keep in your apartment. I hope you stop wondering whether time is slowing down or speeding up. I hope you stop questioning whether you're living in the past and start focusing on the future.

One day I hope you stop writing self
Destructive volumes and novels about yourself. I hope you stop comparing yourself to cancer and death. I hope you stop focusing on other people and learn that it's only you.

One day you'll wake up and find the anxiety and depression is all a little less terrifying than the day before. You'll find that the clocks are meaningless and time is nothing especially relevant. You'll find that the self destruction has turned into self love and the world might continue to go on for another day.

But if you find yourself stuck... In the middle of wanting to die and wanting to ask for help.  I hope you remember to ask.
I hope you remember it's okay to be afraid.
I hope you remember you will go on.

And if I find myself stuck... I hope I re read these words I wrote to try to find myself back again...
Gracie Knoll Jan 2016
Leaving me behind in the shadows of my past
Time is being lost with every tick
Like the heartbeat of the universe
The clocks are calling to us
More followers have they
As our lives are being ruled by this cruelest of masters
Truly we are prisoners of our own invention
Grasped by the aged fingers of time herself
Each wrinkle a century gone by
Each blink is a lifetime
Her hair is grey with the ages
And her robes torn with war
But still her aged heart beats away in her heaving *****
Each breath represents a birth
And each sigh a lonely death
Most men run like clockwork.
Each piece is relevant to the system.
Alas, I am different.
I am a clock, like all other men,
But I am filled with broken parts:
Broken gears, broken hands,
And broken everything else.
I can no longer move forward in time
For my hands are stuck
Cursed to tell and retell one minute.

Why would the clockmaker
Turn me into a monstrosity?
Is this a punishment for my sins
Or is it a challenge I cannot win?
Am I broken to start with
Or is this a cruel joke?
I wish not to retell the same time
Because it is a time that haunts me.
A time that has brought me grief.
Fix me, so I may not be stuck.
Simon Soane Dec 2015
For seconds
there is a purpose
to everything,
and all that matters hums
with a breezy intensity,
the coincidental collision clockwork
murmurs
right on time;
and all the charms
and all the chimes
are you.
The Judge Dec 2015
It just sits there in the corner,
broken and lost without me.
It needs to be fixed,
so it can do its job freely.

Its ticking is gone,
replaced by only silence.
Its like being stuck
on the middle of the fence.

Time cannot go on,
if nothing can count it.
Its like saying you can have light,
when a candle not lit.
sushiebibbi Oct 2015
We chase and chase around the clock
never reaching eachother
maybe one day far from here
we'll be with one another
but for now all we can do is
chase through time to be together
hearing the ticking sound as we run
only to see eachother across the clock
Dreams of Sepia Oct 2015
The clocks have gone back
& you're losing evening light
the squirrel eats whatever seeds
it can still find
the bold blackbird rustles in the bush
the crimson sunset followed
by the dazed moon,
the feral chill in the air
hits you
straight in your restless heart
as you collect wet leaves
as big as your hand
Yes, the clocks have gone back
to dark old winter time
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