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At night I hear the crickets talking to me,
their black backs
slick and reflective
against the moon.
When the sun comes up,
I leave the doors ajar so
they come inside to hide
under the chests and in the corners of the room;
their Morse code of clicks and chirps
a metronome for my writing hand.
Autmn T Jun 2018
Heartbeat reborn out of fear. Heavy thump in my chest like a lead metronome. Keeping time to your footsteps as you walk out the door. I would rather die than watch you leave. Yet here I am, staring at you, frozen in fear. My coffin lined mouth shrill, asking you to not go.
Xallan Dec 2017
A gasp unheard.

The clicking on tile, edging closer.
Now is not a good time to sleep, not a good time to think.
The clacking on stone, sounding louder.
Here is not a good place to sleep, not a good place to breathe.
The tapping increasing, deceiving, the foam walls of insanity and ticking never ending- but it does keep time.
Not a metronome.
Escape sleep, it's right behind you-
The sound never stopping, you're begging to strike fear in yourself on the count of twelve, run away.
Let the lonely whispers take you, the repetitive static break you in its familiar hum-
But don't sleep.
KC Jun 2017
I remember how you’d say
We should spend time not money

But I spent my money on time
And not even my gold encrusted piece
Could freeze the moment you were mine

I can’t tell the difference,
Is it my watch ticking,
Heart beating or the metronome?
Is it the smoke or the pheromones?

You can’t remember the moans
But you remember how the liquor tricked you,
Made her loose
Made you lick her

And you found the gold mine at the meeting of her thighs,
It wasn’t only on her wrist and in her eyes

I’m not one to pray
But my knees got ******
From worshiping a Sunday kind of love

In the name of father time,
You - the sun
And my holy spirit

And I guess it’s true what they say
That nothing good happens after 2 AM

Then again, there was you
And then those 2 PM Monday blues

And it’s ironic how time heals all wounds,
but no drug, god or serum can save us from
tempus edax rerum
This poem is about time, that devours all things
Vale Luna Jun 2017
There's a gentle metronome
Resting on my writing desk
Like a robotic lullaby
Humming me to rest
Through the night
Let my wrongs turn to rights
A dream that's a home

Tick; goes the metronome.

There's a fragile metronome
Posing on my wood bookshelf
The only sound in the room
Echoing all by itself
All day long
A sharp, melodic song
Cranking out a soothing tone

Tick tick; goes the metronome.

There's a cracked metronome
Sitting on my windowsill
Clocking in and out
The worst type of sleeping pill
Night and day
Hypnotizing it's prey
True tranquility stands alone

Tick tick tick; goes the metronome.

There's a defective metronome
Laying on my bedroom floor
It's sickening harmony
Rots me to my core
Losing power
I'm awake every hour
A heart weighed down by stone

Tick tick; goes the metronome.

There's a shattered metronome
Placed at the foot of my bed
A sound that’s lost its tempo
A heartbeat that's fled
In my brain
Repetition in vain
Break me til I'm nothing but bone

Stops the metronome.
Stefan Smith Oct 2015
I forget to listen
to the melody of your voice,
and your words
become a metronome.
Mark Parker Aug 2015
Caramel leaves fell as the wind shifted,
to spell the first days of Autumn.
The sun was shot westward,
hovering over the blue marble
as it radiated with playful heat
that waned out of sharp boredom.
One by one, each tree became bare
like the sound of a lonely metronome.
And within the cold isolation,
each tree said it found peace.
Where are your leaves?
Lux Capacitor Mar 2015
You wanna know what it's like
to be a rebel?
You wanna know what it's like
outside the salt circle
looking in?
I tell you what, I'm not dancing
as much as flailing.
Fitting enough, I am crashing
again the closer
that I get.
You wanna know what it's like
to be the other?
You wanna know what it's like
to live as if you were
not dead but
wholly aware
in stasis?
Holy stasis,
what is it like
to be alive
and empty,
dry of passion?
I better tell
this bitter truth,
that being you
isn't worth
half the strength
you generate.

I tell you what, I'm not dancing
as much as flailing.
Fitting enough, I am crashing
again the closer
that I get.
You wanna know what it's like
to be the other?
You wanna know what it's like
to live as if you were
not dead but
wholly aware?
I would trade wealth
and mental health
for just a touch
of the sand
what has gone lost.

Just a touch,
I want your hand.

What's it like to be the metronome?
I tell you what,
I dance a lot.
Shruti Atri Jan 2015
A seed is planted,
Leaves grow,
Flowers bloom,
Fruits ripen,
The bark toughens,
The stem branches out...

Seasons change,
Leaves wither,
Flowers wilt,
The fallen fruits rot,
The bark wrinkles,
The branches grow higher...

The eternal onset of time,
As the sand escapes the funnel of the hourglass.
Invert and repeat for every empty bulb.
A life, progressing from *birth,

Ending at decay.

Time, she plays her tune-
Tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-...
Like a metronome set to 60 BPM;
Never stopping, ever stomping on,
Oscillating to the mechanical rhythm of Time's pendulum,
Journeying to a finite end on a path set up to infinity.

*Time, she is proof, that we are alive--
Proof that decay hunts down the living...

— The End —