The clock is ticking, my mind digresses;
It ticks at the sound of all my guesses.
Hopeless, what am I even here for then?
For a poet’s past on my new pen?
The clock is ticking, it drives me insane.
A caged pedestal, no risk, stay in lane;
Experimental, what if, I want more?
I’m bleeding out like an open sore!
The clock is ticking, my worlds all collide;
Why scream for help? I was trained to abide.
Sit straight and listen, listen to it all,
Slowly I break, while taking the fall.
The clock is ticking, I read tortured cries,
On pages of woes, castles build on lies.
Anxiously pacing, my eyes want to weep.
My thoughts aren’t mine, what do I keep?
The clock is ticking, I feel like a fraud;
My foes and my friends, just watch and applaud.
The words and the songs, the art I create;
I’m always just good, but never great.
The clock is ticking, the snow now covers,
My hopes, my dreams, the roses and clovers.
I trip and fall over these icy grounds;
The silence screams the loudest sounds.
The clock is ticking, the tears of the skies,
Resemble the ones that fall from my eyes.
Silver sorrows, soaking sadness, say, stay;
Where do I go when there’s no paved way?
The clock is ticking, it ticks and it ticks,
It ticks, do you hear it, the devil’s tricks,
It’s all I can hear, I feel it so near,
The clock is ticking, get me out of here.
The clock is ticking, red ink everywhere;
My confidence brutally stabbed, by that hateful stare.
Wait! the meter is wrong, I’ll try it again,
I swear I’m not bad, I’ll do it again.
The clock is ticking, my mind digresses,
No that’s the beginning, I’ll try it again,
My mind is ticking, no, the clock is ticking,
Stop yelling, I told you I’m trying again,
The clock is ticking, the clock is ticking,
The clock is ticking, black flowers, green skies,
White shadows, red grass, purple starry eyes,
It doesn’t make sense, the clock is ticking,
The clock is ticking, you have to decide,
What you want to do for the rest of your life,
The clock is ticking, I hear it,
The clock —
The clock is ticking, my mind digresses;
It ticks at the sound of all my guesses.
Hopeless, what am I even here for then?
For a poet’s past on my new pen?