I can't stand you,
do you know that?
The way you talk,
and how you're always there —
how I seem to hear you everywhere.
How you're always reminding me of
how little time I have left
of the year, of the day, of my life.
You always move your hands
when you speak to me.
When you speak to me so loudly,
exaggerating your words that are
constantly booming in my brain;
Always ringing in my ears
like the ticking of a time bomb
tick, tick, tick. . .
When they ask me why I
removed all of your batteries and
threw my clock into the trash
I say, "Time is simply an
imaginary concept that
we came up with as
an attempt to organize
our scattered lives.
"And it toys with us, takes control of us
as we slowly run out of it
this clock was not my friend,
nor will it ever be
in fact, to be exact,
this clock
was almost the end of me."
But I still hear you
in my head, yelling
tick, tick, tick, tick
my time is running out
my time is running out
my time is —
tock.
YOU ARE READING
recycled poetry
Poetry❝i wish i was writing something special, but these words have been used before and there's no originality to it at all. i'm just reusing phrases until they're worn out, like musty library books or hand-me-down clothes.❞ from ❛hand-me-down poetry❜ i...
