Like A Clock

This poem speaks from a place of darkness I often visit, where I feel the extetentional fear so many do. That everything is pointless, that I am pointless. The poem is about feeling so very lost and inadequate, to wanting some direction, some purpose. To me clocks are worthless, as time is a man made construction and does not have any worth, and isn't there a sort of pointlessness in time? And the spinning of clocks?