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Sera Amour Apr 2015
Tic.
Tock.
There goes the clock.

Tic.
Tock.
There goes another hour.
Power.
That's what the clock has over us,
ticking from our first fuss,
to the last time we tie our shoes and get on a bus.

Tic.
Tock.
There goes the clock.

Tic.
Tock.
Another clogged up rut.
The odd feeling in my gut,
the sound of the ticking making me jut.
The door is shut.

Tic.
Tock.
There goes the clock.

Tic.
Tock.
Can't you see?

It was me.
I tried to be set free,
I wanted to flee,
I just wanted to be.
Forgive me?

Tic.
Tock.
There goes the clock.

Tic.
Tock.
The mouse is in trouble.

Bubble.
The clock had it popped,
your life has been cropped,
your skull was dropped.

Tic.
Tock.
There goes the clock.
DD Apr 2015
When the clocks will stop,
There would be no you
Nor me
All that is, and not,
It will finally...
Be seen.

Soon the time, will come,
When He
Will finally return,
When the clocks will stop,
All we have
Will turn to dust...
Thomas EG Mar 2015
I go out, for once.
You appear before me and reach instantly for my beloved treasure chest, but I am uncomfortable. No means no tonight, as does it every other night.
You do not step back.
Only the chairs' arms are willing to support me, so my own small hand reaches for your twelve o'clock and now it is you who must flee.
The candles' tongues lick you on your way out.
Explicit.
Are you happy now? Where's your horse and carriage babe?
By the way, you dropped your ******* shoe.
Goodnight.
Hahahaha. Ha. Alcohol does good things to my brain. Good vibes.
Rockie Feb 2015
Clocks;
Ticking

Locks;
Clicking

Advice;
Taken

Leaves;
R­aked

The clocks
Are ticking

Tick, tick, ticking
Your life away

Your fate;
Chosen

Your death;
Imminent

Your breath
Stolen

Your heart rate;
Slowing

Your clock;
*Stopping
Wa Wa Feb 2015
You think
Too Much –
The comments fly,
sting,
punch,
bite.
As if you are always
Worse than you are –
You are Fine –
Fine?
What defines Fine?
Average, the usual –
The arrow’s slow trek
around the clock,
unblinking, relentless.
Endless.
Too Much?
The water is rising
just over the rim,
peeking at me,
daring me
to spill over.
Meg Howell Jan 2015
Time is just trivial
and clocks are just toys
what's really pivotal
is that we enjoy
the life we are given
is not meant to be rushed
time is a heathen
and clocks make us mushed
mashed up vegetables
with no sense of reality
can't you see
we aren't what we are meant to be
Noandy Jan 2015
The drooping sun stood across the wooden bow,
showering it with drowsy thoughts for the wooden boy
In the abandoned graveyards where pavements were abolished
Plaid plague nourished the jingling broken eyes

The graveyards of dreams and graveyards of clocks
Will deliver the nails of sorority locks
To cradle the soft heat of the drenched sun
To bring on temptation of demolition’s sons

Let’s say that the pavements of hopes were of pain and vain
The vines were vanity and the roots were dignity
If agony keeps us close to our core,
then drench pins on my head to keep me human
I have a fascination of clocks.
The exact moment that they have stopped,
is known for anyone to see.
How can it be,
that love, careers, and families,
cannot be the same?
How can it be,
that I will never know,
the exact moment when it all stopped,
when it all came crashing down?
Kane Jan 2015
The beautiful clockwork
and mechanical silence.
Boredom broken by nature,
nature broken by violence.

As time tics by
and we feel so jaded.
The growing urge to defy,
the urge seems so faded.

Repetitive motions
fill up life.
Ancient drumbeats
leading eternal strife.

The omnipresent struggle
presents the status quo.
To break the flow or go with it?
The answer we may never know.
Amanda Dec 2014
Should there ever be a backward twirling of the clock gears, a paisley maze of metal and magic to occur,

every tear will trace back to its watery scars.
Even the ropes shackling hearts will fray,
shackles broken.
Bits and crumbs of dim memories become whole again.
Just as sweet.
And perhaps, the bad will seep back in.
The dead will open their eyes again.
Roughly stiched in wounds so long ago, where even the owner has forgotten to hem back up the stiches to the surface.
The white cotton thread would have never met the needle's eye.
A baby's nursery room may gather more dust than expected.
Hello there you lovely soul!
xo
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