Wednesday mornings
are for 6am drives
while screaming along
to Beyonce

Friday nights
are for 4-cheese burgers
with extra large fries
AND a large coke

8am weekdays
are for dad jokes
and eye rolling puns

And Monday nights
are for senseless soul speak
and everything in between

Boring routines are built upon
spending and wasting time with people who make you forget the time

Perhaps it is time, I return to my roots.
Abandoned the topic, never let it bear fruits.
I have grown thin, my feet unfit for its boots.
But linger no longer, I shall return to my roots.

The clockwork gears begin to spin and words connect.
The cobwebs severed, time repairs the neglect.
The pieces of the puzzle slowly conjoin, my pencil *****,
I write down my lines, my latest project.

You know me as glue or Glueboi if preferred.
I know what you think, poems about glue are quite absurd.
But the line between glue and my soul has become blurred.
Gears are in motion, I've returned to my roots, no need to reword.

My effort is rewarded, the project is complete.
A poem about glue that no other poet can beat.
A poem which will be welcomed into the halls of the elite.
My victory tastes oh so sweet.

My anticipation rises, a chance to share with the world once more.
My magnum opus will be shared, my dark world will grow brighter.
It spreads its wings and soars.

Nature sees what nature sees,
And nature does what nature does.
Minds believe in memories
And sometimes hearts believe in love.
When hearts and minds do both agree,
Conceived are dreams converged as one,
But love of life and logic leaves
Our livelihoods left out of luck.

Deceived are these who dream of things
Composed of money, grease, and blood:
Mechanical beings, with cogs and springs,
Like clockwork do this planet run.
In tightened shifts, devices click,
And slowly start to smog the sun,
But smoke and fog made synthetically,
How many does this bother? None.
Machines, you see, they do not breathe
The air they leave beneath for us.
They call this craft their politics,
And leave us here to pay in blood.
One by one, by one, we wonder,
Where the humans lost their love.

When will men begin to see
What nature sees how nature does?

She hears tick tock, tick tock within her head.
Tick tock, tick tock the gears turn and grind as the clock work falls in line within her mind.
The time is rushing within her thoughts too fast for her to stop.
Soon she will wind down and will not tick or tock.
The clockwork girl will have no more thoughts, time runs short for her well-oiled clock.
Goodbye my lovely clockwork girl tick tock, tick tock, tick tock!

love isn't sentient and knows not the time
love is pure emotion, raw and divine
so take your clockwork else where
as love has no time to spare --
who would watch hands go round
when an entire world is out there?
love isn't something you count down from
no, love is a long hug and a smile
so take your clockwork else where
and fall in love for a while.

As I sit here
Watching the clock melt, like a Salvador Dali painting
The seconds and the minutes dripping down the wall.
The hours burning holes in my brain

All the time that I've allowed to pass
Without wanting to use it
Yet being afraid of it running out,
Of not having any time left to experience
When all along,
I could've put out the flames
That started in my head.

I have too many clocks
Reminding me of how much time I've wasted
How often I could've gotten in the car
Taken the road less traveled by,
Or gone the extra mile.
They say it's never crowded
But how am I to know
When I can't even clear the traffic jam in my mind?

As I sit here
Contemplating my worth, based on time used
I wonder how often the living truly live
Knowing that it is much more likely
That they are just shells of children
That were once alive.
The children that got lost
Staring at the overworked hands of Father Time

As I take the clock off the wall
And add it to my drawer of reminders,
I begin to wish that time didn't exist
Or rather, that we hadn't created it
Because too often I find myself walking the line
Between memorizing every detail of the clock
And ignoring its existence altogether.

It's hard out here for an automaton
the sun is hot on my metal
Over heats my copper wire
Causes all manner of motor malfunctions
System failures
In cold winter days the residual wetness I step in
shorts my circuits
and shocks my partners
I am fond of small coffee shop nooks with outlets.
I don't need to travel too far to recharge
And since I'm so shiny
often briefcases and lipstick come around
sit their lattes on my discarded instruction manual pages
To offer me oil
I will let them insert the Nettie *** shaped disk where they choose
it's rough being a clock work boy
I set myself to operate
at three hours before is necessary in case
I'm distracted by some new upgrade or need
to document another error message.
they never write me back,
bronze looks good on thigh plates
I had this woman notice my key today
protruding from my back
the translucent panel showing into all my cogs and gears
she said she wanted to turn it
back, so she could see my program
run it from the beginning again.
I warned her, turning the key
would only turn back me.
I would rather let the program run on it's natural course,
sure, I'll get closer to the end, but I'm a curious construct
haven't seen the end of my functionality yet
woman keep coming up and asking me to turn back the key
and I am weak,
but don't worry I said
if I run out of energy, you can always turn the key back.
I'll play it all over and you can remember.
She didn't like the idea of doing the same thing over either
she turned the key, waited for it to run out,
left me on the doorstep for some other person to turn back on.
it's hard out here for an automaton.
the sun is hot on my metal
over heating my copper wiring causing all manner
of motor malfunctions
and system failures.