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Spenser Bennett Jun 2016
I have expanded through one million dimensions and still I remain flat.
Paper walls surrender my paper heart to the words that erase themselves with age.

If there is meaning I find it meaningless unless you got it right in one guess.
Can you feel blood in my lost chest as it circulates? Maybe that's a mistake.

Do dead men tell no tales or maybe they spin them lacking air to rattle through ragged dead lungs still pink yet misunderstood? Dust that settles behind twinkling stars lets me down above this silent neighborhood.

I think we all grow up to be pirates, Y'know the kind that the Pan hates?
Betraying our childhood dreams and aspirations for backgreens and exasperations.

If this ship is sinking I want to be the anchor, watch it all crash down in slow motion, while it buries me at the bottom of your endless ocean.
Tick, tick, tick. The clock have ceased their tocks.

Cover to cover I think I have found another darling. Can this tale continue to spin while the world above changes page by page?
Exploring stories that stand up to the test of time. Peter Pan has always been a fascinating idea to me. Thank you for reading!
Mollie Nov 2018
burdened by the intense understanding of their anatomy,
their mortality
the human condition was to often forget how to live, for they always knew they would die.
from the tissues of the brain,
to the arteries within their hearts,
like psychics hovering over crystal *****,
humans saw themselves decay
and their world decay
with the pollution and destruction
they saw the effects of their reality forced upon those not aware enough to have a choice
how could they know that the creation of time would allow them to track every second
of grief,
every moment of pain.
time became an instrument of torture.
the days and the nights,
alone. the clock ticks,
tocks, two seconds.
two more seconds alone.
the compilation of pixels on a screen which
promotes entertainment
opened them up to the realities of the world
and children screamed
and choked
tear gas burned their eyes.
desensitised to violence,
they lied to them, their children...

Not perfect, but this was my stream of consciousness upon hearing the news the other morning.
Elizabeth Zenk Jul 2018
The distant thrumming
the rhymic ticking
a sound I used to hold dear.
washing away
the squeaks
the squawks
of a home too broken too share.
The taps
The tocks
of an old analog clock
washing my life to sleep.
Genaro Talavera Jan 2017
My heart is filling with sand
A grain, a pain
Lunacy will comfort me.
when the
Ticks and
Tocks won't
**** the clock
till you have
paper skin
Blue Ribbons Mar 2018
There’s a heavy cloud over the lonely town.
One, filled with raindrops of melancholia
That heavily rain down.
It hangs over the houses like a blanket of mist,
Muffling the pain and restlessness adrift.

It creates a vortex,
As vast as all space,
Where time can stand still
And seconds interlace.

Their heavy “tick tocks “
Speak many ways
Of wisdom and culture
And the good ol’ days.

And the people,
The people are no longer all there.
They walk in a slow march
Throughout the crowded town square.

Their faces hidden
Behind sheets of paper,
Blank masks,
An army of hungry dream breakers.

With eyes of steel
And hooded motions,
They are almost completely
Devoid of emotions.

No thoughts.
No words,
Just utter silence.
They make their way off into the rain,
That’s timeless.
JaxSpade Apr 26
Is in the valley
Of deception
And we peruse
His face ticking
He is the master
To our slaving over
Every minute
We desire
More than our creator
Orbits every spaces
Every matter
In every purpose
It passes age
With galactical rotations
Spinning in different directions
Obeying laws of obedience
Ticks and tocks walk across
Numbers in calender socks
Every wrist displaying a watch
So we know what to obey
When it looks at us back
Anya Jun 15
The air is hot in here
Filled with the smell of sin
The clock tick-tocks
in the dark
Measuring time
Registering every second of pain
Old carpet, stained with blood
Hiding ***** secrets,
those which doesn't want to be found
Broken bed,
nailed by the weight of all the screams
it heard

Windows closed… long time ago

Evil monster in the closet
The one which never sleeps
He comes out at night to eat
Devour innocence
Tear it apart to pieces
Too pure to escape
Too sweet to get away
On the table the Bible
On the wall the Holy Cross
Above the door invitation;
„Come, in the name of Love”.
Stop, you can't
          stop the ticking
                    as it tocks away
          counting every
second in every
          day, if you do
                    you will slip and
          fall back in to
your regular
          relapse because
                    it knows that
          every moment
is fleeting and
          you can't escape
                    from treating
          every face like
a lifeline as to
heave your fragile,
          broken body out
                    of the ditch in
          which you dug
in a futile plot
                    to break your
          cynical cycle
         and run away
from everything
          pragmatic and
                    pessimistic and
                    ticking and
                       ­       in
          ­                                        head.

Silence descended
upon the house.

The too loud tick tocks
from the old clock: stopped.'

As if, Time had vanished.
Reality,  been banished.

The night shed itself
snowflake by snow flake

until the night had been
covered up with quiet.

Somewhere a mouse

He could see


But, her.

He awaited her
answer with cliched

baited breath.

Her luscious lovely lips
parted almost

in a slow motion trope
as she said:


meowed the cat.

She laughed.

Her laughter...
. . .his answer.

The hands of the clock
try to grab hold of me

as I dive through
its tick tocks

into the depths
of my private time

where mere mechanical timekeepers
and paper calendars

can not  hold me
to account.

I abandon time
leave it far behind

free now
from this fragile world

of flesh
and bone

my very being
my own.

Memory is "another country
they do things differently there."

Here a second is
a century.

A moment made of

collapsing into one.

And I a child again
for whom time

does not exist
only this forever now.
Dani Nov 2018
Water on my fingertips
Slowly it drips
Like watching leaves turn color
In the Autumn skies allure
Drops on the floor
Never as they once were before
Dripping from me, I wait
For time to pass, so innate
As ticks tocks and water drops
Play a familiar harmony
Heart pounding adds to the symphony
Like how the ocean sang and danced
As waves crash over the wet sand
Or the way birds chipped with buzzing bees
As the wind rustled the feathers of a thousand trees
Understand this beauty, holy matrimony
It is a perfect harmony
Hold on to the lyrics sung in the skies above
Listen and hold the music of truelove
Water drips from my fingertips
And all I do is watch it fall as my heart skips
For nature’s beautiful music is hidden
Taken from me as if I am forbidden
Forbidden to love or feel the peace given
It’s return I await, then all can be forgiven
Inspired by the memories of a river bed I used to visit often. I spent much of my time there listening to the music nature would create. I miss it very much. Now my life is too busy to enjoy much of anything.
(for Brian )

Each night
I would follow you

through the rituals
of what you had to do

being Daddy.

I wanted to be Daddy too.

Mimicking your gait
becoming an exact

of you

trailing along
in your footsteps

like a lone seagull
following in the wake

of some great ship
of state

watching the water

'til it was all bubbles

then letting it
calm down

before filling my mother's
hot water bottle

carrying it to her side
like a lover's gift.

I was
your little shadow.

She'd always smile:
'Thank you Danny! '

'That's alright love."
was always the answer.

These the ritualistic words
in the hot water bottle ceremony.

Then he'd teach the clock
to ****

adjusting it with his hands
and wind up Time

so that it spit tick & tocks
all through the night

then go lock doors
turn keys
draw bolts.

'That's it, son! '

I used to imagine
being you

and now I am
my own man

winding up Time

bringing my missus
the gift of a hot water bottle

(the gift of me)

both equally
heart warming.

'Thank you Donall! '
she always smiles.

'That's all right love! '
I always answer.

Me the man
i am

because of you.
Morgan Jun 29
Now I play my favorite game,
sitting, which I can't stand

Waiting for a landing plane
Or a plane to land

An airport made of ticking tocks
watching others take flight

Cockpit doors and clicking locks
A layover with no end in sight

Time has filled my belly
A century on my plate

Scarfing down these heaping
boring spoonfuls of "Wait"

Waiting for a Moment...
Waiting for a Sign...

Waiting for the stars to shift
into a perfect line

These are things I've never seen
So add them to the list

The list of all the dreams I've dreamed
and boys I've never kissed

I waited in Wonder
and wondered "Why The Wait?"

If time is an illusion
Then why do I Feel late?

I see the things I want
And Now is time to take it

There's no Fairy on it's Fairy way
to wave a wand and make it

Knowing what I'm great at
And what I'm meant to be...

Somewhere on a something
Is an open seat for me
Reese B Feb 21
Time is time
Time takes time
Time is always on our mind
Time is forever moving
Time brings about change, unwanted and wanted
Time travels us to new places
Time unwinds or confines us into new spaces
Time teaches us that all things come to an end
Time tick-tocks and tick-tocks and tick-tocks on end
Time fills spaces
Time ages faces
Time slows down
Time is lost
Time will end... What time is it?

-Reese B.
Eric May 12
In the middle of this society, reflecting on what it’s done to me
Planning my next move, calculating it within the rules
I think about the very essence, am I here or in other dimensions
But then my clock tick tocks, alarm set back to culture shock

Is there a way to someplace better, where my mood’s not dictated by the weather
Where I’m not guided by technology, a world where there’s surprise for me
Something meaningful, more powerful than a hand can create
A revolution of my consciousness, societies’ debate

So I step out now and look into the horizon
Before a million miles, but my motivation’s rising
And I see the peak, a pathway to the heavens
I rely on myself, I’ve learnt you can’t rely on sevens

Now I’m finding my truth, I’m trusting it to carry me
To inspire my thoughts, to inspire self philosophy
I don’t need to be told what to do or think or say
I’m a let the universe guide me before it throws us all away

Ge Marquez Jan 28
Two second-hands living in the same Big Ben
counter and clockwise beat together in a similar rhythm on opposing schedules of the day
she breaks her fast at around 8am, syncing with his injestion of supper and she collapses at midnight just as he reboots for the night shift
though they spend most of the ticks and tocks in varying angles
It was agreed upon that they meet on the sixth –
Definitely on the sixth of the week
to reconcile and kindle… caressing those can’t-be-helped blank spaces where fragments should have been
Terry Collett Nov 2018
Of course he will want it
all his own way; always has,
always will,
and you sit facing
the dull wall,
in that creaky chair,
wearing the old dress
of black and white,
gazing at the bland wall
as if secrets of the ages
were painted there.

You are taking a few
well-earned minutes to yourself,
forgetting for a moment
the calls or wants
of those upstairs,
and sit, musing,
your hands in your lap,
your feet unshod,
the shoes lying there
like vacated vessels.

Up at 5.30
to wash in the dark
in that old basin with cold water,
then dress; downstairs
to light the fires,
and go see what cook
wants you to do,
listen to her moans;
lay the table in the dining room,
ensure the fire is going strong.

Now to rest, wait for cook
to call for your breakfast,
having waited on them upstairs
as they decide to have breakfast,
listen to their chat,
look unconcerned, but secretly
listening for gossip.

Here it is quiet;
no one to disturb;
can sit and muse
on your life.

Of course, he will want you
tonight in his bed,
after the others are abed,
to creep in, hush hush,
climb into his bed,
and he will kiss, hold
and have his way with you.

The large clock in the hall
tick-tocks loudly;
chimes loudly each hour;
reminds you the time
ticking away,
day after day.
A maid in 1890 London
poetryaccident Sep 2018
The question springs to mind
is today the time to take my life?
look to the certain, it will arrive
the tick-tocks drifts on by

this surety comes with dread
that outcome none should indulge
even if this fated path
is the one that’s close to mind

anger feeds the fixed focus
co-conspirator with stalking fear
with no escape but to flee
into routes that are one-way

that plan kept in close reserve
safety chute with crossbones doors
don’t let the icon spoil the mood
the smile is there to reassure

no flowers last from kind delights
another waits to sprout instead
that poison seed in dank earth
blooming where the other fails

caring is the saddest jest
illusion smiling without hope
the curtain hiding nothing more
than the ugliness of mankind

the certitude is always there
remedy near at hand
if only life could be pursued
with the promise death ensures.

© 2018. Sean Green. All Rights Reserved. 20180910.
The poem “This Surety” is about the pain of ideation.
Imanuel Baca Nov 2018
Metals touches skin and presses closer once upon a time.
Rocks upon rocks upon golden locks
Suddenly the colors of my life becomes supersaturated
Ticks upon ticks upon tocks of the clock.
I am losing sleep, and pressing up to metal
Like atlas I take the weight of the world up on my shoulders
I feel my heat compress as I breath the stress
The more I dream the more my belief is less
I feel relief at last as I leave my past  
They are aghast but I only laugh
Why would I keep these chains made for demon brains?
When I am living dreams and dreaming pains?
Or growing pains driving me insane.
If only there was some other way I could explain.
If only there was some other way I could explain.
If only there was some other way I could explain.

— The End —