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Wake up!
It’s time to wake up!!
I mean really wake up!!!
It’s not about the hands on the clock
That tick tick tick tick tock
The clock that never stops
Like a pendulum weighted rod
Reducing peripheral awareness
Routines that seems senseless
Coffee, breakfast, traffic relentless
The hands that clock you in
and clock you out
Never do you stop and doubt
The beat to which you march about
The mind checked out
It’s 5 o’clock somewhere
Drown my mundaneness out
Blindfold and gag my inner shout
My robotic need to march to the monotonous beat
For what will i have but despair and defeat
Oh holy one, save me from my inner beast
My natural instincts would have me feast
On love and lust and defenceless defeat
No boundaries, no walls, just vulnerability
The clock keeps tick tick ticking
The mind keeps click click clicking
Until finally I did see
Beyond its purpose to notify me
of daily chores and deadlines to meet...
It was in the hospital, starring at me,
A clock that asked how to be free
For time is not a commodity
It cannot be sold or bought for a fee
It has to be lived despite pain and poverty
For in the struggles there is also glee
No matter how sad our sorrows go deep
The time that we have is worth it to keep
Unchain that inner beast
For love is a necessity
And lust a natural need
Don’t waist your time on complacency
Live each second, minute and hour
Every day, week, and seasonal flower
Growing each year, knowledge is power
Don’t take one moment for granted
For time is no fairytale enchanted
A seed that flowers and dies
Was originally planted
The crack of dawn,
Grogginess kicking in,
Struggling to get up for the day,
Everyday just like the rest,

Same routine,
Sleep. Eat. Learn. Study. Sleep.
But one day something changes,
A kink is thrown in the system,
Nothing is the same again,

Going to school different every day,
Trying to adapt to the change,
But it is hard to change,
To this lifestyle that is different,

Not knowing what to do,
Or what to choose,
For life has thrown a curveball,
In my life plan,
And I don’t know what to choose,

Eventually will have to make decisions,
Which I’m not ready to make,
For I’m afraid if I choose,
I will make a wrong choice,

Time is ticking,
And I have to choose soon,
For not being ready is not helpful,
It is coming too fast,

For panicking is what I’m doing
Do I choose sports or school,
Will I make the right choice,
Or suffer my own doom,

These choices will help mold my fate,
And the pressure of the choices is unbearable,
For I can’t decide a choice,
I love all the stuff I do,

But I don’t know if I’m ready to say goodbye,
To my friends. Sports. School. Or life too.
For life is going by fast,
And I can keep up with it,
I wish I could just stay back and live in the good ol’ days.
SelinaSharday Jul 2018
Good morning new day..
I arise early I pray..
I'm humbled and grateful..
Not too sure as to which tasks to tackle at first.

There's a hint of thirst..
The desire to get accomplished what was left undone yesterday.
Good morning again new day..
I'm reminded its still so early..
Don't know what will feel the worst.

Not getting done all the mind usually has rehearsed.
Or not getting something new done first.

Ok breakfast.. no nothing till lunch..
Maybe do a brunch.
when do I fit a workout in..
Best time about ten..a.m
Be sure to get your vitamins taken.

Anxious to get prepared for today's work.
Allergy flared up..
Showered and all cleaned up.
All kinds of task yelling for my attention..
Some for work, some about business.
And some for my own pleasure.
Twenty four hours is the length of measure.
Yet theres this sense of pressure.


No wonder I feel tired already..
It's only the beginning..
Yet so much is already awaiting..

Thanks for reading this lil dose of new day waiting..
selinasharday's @H.E.R Poetic Collectionz
s.a.m copy right..2018
new day starting assignments pressure, needs, wants, must be dones today is the day.. procrastinations and the more.
Between the P's of Pressures and pleasures!
ffn Apr 2018
I say I attract toxic,
Deep down I think
I crave it.
ffn Apr 2018
I can't stand you unless you're between my legs.
It's not love but can we just pretend a little longer?
ffn Apr 2018
I always run to your bed when I'm lonely,
And fifteen minutes later I'm still lonely but at least I'm
daytime rhythms
of coming and


out the door
in the car
to the place


twiddled thumbs
swivelled chairs
barked-up trees
and morning teas
and banter

on knees
and eyes to

and this meeting
and that duty
tick tock

a-flow through
time and space
and light
as the
sun turns over
in its sky
and rests its
head down on
the other side

out the door
in the car
to the place

for something quick
to have for dinner



© 2017 Adelaide Heathfield
The march of nine-to-five sets the rhythm of the day, both soothing and begrudging. It causes flare-ups of activity at certain times and lulls at others.

Collective shufflings here and there make people cranky but keep them on track. And the sequence of sounds—predictable, as if orchestrated—makes music of the mundane.
imperfectwords Dec 2017
Over the crack in the pavement I walk, four more steps, again.

Carefully scanning every familiar environment for threats; they are all around me.

Devils inside whisper gruesome thoughts that poison my mind and fray my nerves.  

Insecurities plague my body, demanding to be acknowledged and obeyed.

Scratches appear on my arms; deep trenches from last night’s terrors.  

Maybe I forgot to vacuum… or check for locked doors…  

Yelling erupts inside my head, I need to go back to reassure these persistent voices.

Moving towards the wall, I give four taps; this will silence them for now.

Overwhelmed again, this time my mouth starts to count aloud: one, two, three, four; an endless loop.

Needless washing all day- dry, aching hands scrub again and again, then reach for more soap.  

Sacrifices are made faithfully, I lose more of my passions and friends as this hellish nightmare continues.  

Time flies as I organize… three hours to make the bed and straighten the lines on my uneven comforter.  

Every routine is completed to agonizing perfection; all are followed until the next day when I  

Austin Heath Dec 2016
I wake up like this;
toothache, slowly, sweating and
over the covers.

Speak lowly of me
if you think I did you wrong.
I change names often.

Though I'm not hiding,
my movement mimics prey and
gives thanks to hunters.

Seasonal regards.
I can't get it off my mind
so I sleep like this.
Andrew T May 2016
Every morning I went
to the coffee shop across the street
from my house,
because I didn’t work.

For every resume I typed out,
I wrote a poem,
in order to keep me from
sending you a text marked with a white flag.

A skull was concealed in the flag,
as a watermark. The sun made
love to a cluster of clouds,
while I rolled a cigarette using strands of your brown hair.

I opened my wallet
and took out a photograph
of me and you from the booth
that one night when you made a fire out of caskets.

Your face had been glowing with warmth,
as if you had drained all the light out of the sun,
and had taken a shower in its yellow glow.
Your eyes were bright with a hopeful future.

Then you grew your hair longer,
and pulled it over your eyes,
like twin pirate eye-patches.
But you’d said you weren’t blind, just indifferent.

Today I wrote another poem on a countertop,
in the coffee shop,
and bandaged the wounds you gave me
when you told me you never cared about me.

One of the baristas wearing a brown apron
and a blue baseball cap, gave me poems
from James Tate. And as I read
“The Lost Pilot” it started to drizzle from the ceiling.

I wasn’t sure if it was rain pouring on my head,
and on my poems, or if it were melted ice-cream,
rich and thick in its texture,
Our first date we stole vanilla ice-cream from a Giant.

You stuffed it in your golden purse,
and ran through the doors, as a fat security guard
chased after you. Then, you hopped
into my blue Volkswagen and we sped off.

I was perfectly fine with being the getaway driver,
you dipped a bent spoon
into the plastic container and scooped out
the ice-cream. You ate it hungrily.

And after I took a bite,
we went to the park and swung on the swings,
coasting up and down in the air,
vanilla stained on the front of our black shirts.

Back at the coffee shop, I played the keyboard
in the bathroom because I was shy,
shy of you finding out,
because you love piano melodies.

And I guessed I wanted to play
for myself for a change. I played
“My Cherri Amour,” and drank gin
from a flask, until every key looked like a playing card.

After I played the song,
I left the coffee shop
,went home, and painted our last conversation,
using words from a newspaper.

“It’s over.”
“You were never right for me.”
“You’re not mature enough for a relationship.”
“I never want to see your face at Peets.”

Peets was the coffee shop we would always go to,
every morning, rain or shine,
rested or exhausted, and
I remember you would read my poems.

You read my poems as if they were
Daphne Loves Derby song-lyrics. Last night
you texted me that my poems
sounded like rushed and convoluted emails.

After that I blocked you on everything,
from social media to your number.
I hoped we would grow weak with joy,
and grey with age.

Words, whether from your lips,
or a text shattered the trust
I gave you, as if it were
my social security code.

In front of the bathroom mirror,
I took a pink eraser and rubbed it
against my foreheard,
to remove the wrinkles.

Each wrinkle represented a time
when you had failed me, or
when I had failed you. Our failures
were weights that I had balanced in my memory.

Kaufman would be pleased
of my progress. I wrote a sculpture
with glass and tears
at my desk, alone in my clean, well-lighted room.  

And then I took the sculpture,
and buried it
in my backyard, right next to the grave
of my old and weak self.

I smoked a cigarette using
sad memories as rolling papers.
As the paper burned slowly, I
let the smoke fill my heart.

Because my lungs were tired,
tired from breathing, tired from
living for you. Because you
are not the only thing that matters anymore.
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