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Ken Pepiton Jan 2021
Taking stock of good ideas, tried and proven,
handible, holdable, ways and means to ends
The End
which means now, nearly, for me, part of me,
for the thymus gland, font of wiser than I imagined
T-cells, about which AI knows everything,
in the cloud of knowing witnesses now

encompassing us about---
so I need no wax pedantic,
tic asktask
AI ' f'
Art's intelligence, or-if-suf-ficial ficiency
--- stop-- think what is
the point to a life lived in focus, point by point, stretching
any point that may
stretchy, to its snapping point, and say

That only goes so far, re
mind me, next time I try to stretch such a point, re
mind me to only go
this far.

But, Hello World; Hello Poetry, is a place
where long drawn out thoughts
may amuse strangers as they
ask, what lies do I tell
as well as any fool?

Jokers. Can't take a joke, wanna take a poke,
knock this chip

from my pseudo-frontal-cortex module?
I might have broken something, I confess, everithing is as crazy as I thought it could get... back when I was thinking about how bad it could get... so I smashed it to smithereens to see what made it tic.
Jaicob Nov 2020
"Tick, tick, tick,"
The little watch shouts.
He sits inside my pocket
And awaits me drawing him out.

Tic, tic, tic
It's time for me to rest.
Society and anxiety
Give me too much stress.

"Tick, tick, tick,"
His voice puts me to sleep.
I love his perfect rhythms-
The perfect time he keeps.

Tic, tic, tic
The second I put him away,
The vicious tics come back
I wish they wouldn't stay.

"Tick, tick, tick,"
Directly into my ear.
The only way to stay 'normal'
Is through the rhythm I hear.

Tic, tic, tic
Whenever I am stressed,
The painful tics come back
And cannot be suppressed.

"Tick, tick, tick,"
The second-hand marches on.
Enduring all his hardships,
He's rewound every dawn.

Tic, tic, tic
My fists are bruised and aching.
"What a crazy spaz"
Society's gaze is saying.

"Tick, tick, tick,"
My lovely watch proclaims.
I whisper the rhythm back;
The perfection keeps me sane.

- - -

I need my pocket watch beside me.
Though it may not seem I do.
You simply do not understand
The troubles I'm pushing through.

The terrible sounds and motions
Are so very, very draining.
The worry to always suppress,
Wears out by the day's ending.

My watch sits beside me,
Ticking as I write this
(Ticking so I don't have to),
And reading as a witness.
This poem is about how stress and anxiety often make my tics worse. I always keep a pocket watch with me, however, so I can pull it out and place it near my ear to listen to the perfect ticking noise it makes. This very unceasing rhythm is what keeps me from having a breakdown most of the time.
Charmine Oct 2020
Tic tac, tap your shoe
Tick tock, works the ticking clock
Tip toe, move the ballet pointe
Erian Rose Apr 2019
Do you ever wonder what it would be like
If everything ended at a simple tic?
What would you do
If it was the last day?
For now,
I don't know.
K Balachandran Nov 2018
Moon’s suggestive gleam,
Night taut with ****** tics;
Nature’s alert peaks!
Jessie Schwartz Feb 2018
TIC-TOC by Jessie 5/06
10pm. I go to sleep
11pm., awake
12am. I toss and turn
How long, will this process take?
1am, I grab a drink
Read a little from my book
2am, I have to ***
From the drink I took
3am, dozing off
Until startled by the dog
Can’t remember the last time
I was sleeping like a log
4am, the moon is bright
Shining in my eyes
Pull the blanket across my face
From the light, I hide
5am, it’s hard to breath
Take the covers off my face
Still can’t sleep, I hear you snore
While the ceiling, my eyes trace
6am, one eye is shut
I’m tired and I yawn
Sound asleep, I start to dream
Then wakened by my alarm
7am, time to get up
Shower, shave and eat
Head to the car
Drink in hand
Shuffling both my feet
8am, punch the clock
Sitting at my desk
Lean back in my chair
Feet are up to rest
Blink one time too many
Until, they open not
5pm time to go
Some sleep I finely got
Sadia May 2017
As time passes by, the past has been sealed. We cannot travel backwards, time will not permit us to do so. Instead, we need to look forward in life. We are the ones who control our future. It is up to us to fulfill our dreams. If we don’t seize what lies ahead of us in time, our life will tick away...just like the clock that ticks away time.
Mark Parker Mar 2016
Tic Toc at the midnight hour,
peddling along louder and prouder.

Clock my dear friend,
you've done it again.
Every single second I learn
that time has passed,
and you're consistent,
I hear it sixty times
within a minute.
And he continues.
Smugly taunting along
with that perfect timing
envied by all musicians.
The clock, my worst adversary.
Prozac and Tic Tacs
That's what keeps me sane
One keeps my mouth clean
The other Scrubs my brain
These small sweet little pills I pop

                now two

                                         now four

I wonder what would happen if I took a couple more
Maddy Van Buren Apr 2015
maybe you are my new nervous tick, because let's be honest, I'm a little obsessive. and if it's not you, it's the person after you. the person I can't recognize because I am so blind to everything but what we had. it's my involuntary physical and mental attraction to you that makes me tic, makes a tic, that is my tic. it's repetitive; calling you Friday night after Friday night, believing it may fill me up without drowning me out. but I'm empty, I'm always empty. I don't mean to involve you, and I know you think I do this because you're still my everything, but you're just a something. a physical preoccupation I've yet to overcome, as you're always in reach. cover up the void you've left behind, never fill it - that isn't your place; tics are not mutually beneficial. we in no way help each other. do not know a way to help each other. you aren't my saving grace; you're the bad habit. the phantom limb I need to forget. the tic to fit my criteria: close, but never here. available to hold me, but in holding me you're making my tears. could you ever fathom such a senseless incongruity? and just where are you now? you're holding me in the darkness but I know you don't feel what I feel, won't ever feel a thing. me ignoring the truth of your coldness, the brevity of your affection - tics like your timepiece. maybe next Friday night, it'll be different. maybe next Friday night, I won't need a tic like a crutch, won't be crushed. until then.
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