Loud Clock
I'm tired, please stop.
It's late, and I'm starting to hate
the sound of the hands on the clock.
Counting every minute, every hour
That you two fight and bite
And tear at each other's hearts.
Weren't you happy?
taking his hand, wandering
Around quiet streets and empty parks?
Weren't you hopeless?
showing up at her doorstep
when it was already way past dark?
Weren't you...in love?
Both thinking, this is the one,
right from the very start?
now, she roams to be alone.
now, he flees to be set free.
now, they wonder,
Perhaps it was just never meant to be?
Nothing really had caused us to be torn asunder.
it was just never meant to be.
they hurl lies intended to hurt,
sharp little pins
in the coffin of their love.
I am the consequence of their blunder.
I just want it to stop
but nothing can drown out the clock.
not the wind, rain, or thunder.
so instead I lay on my bed
take out this old, beat up notebook
and write.
I write of before, now, and after.
I write of crying, quiet, and laughter.
and
I write of my fears, hopes and dreams.
nothing is louder than the clock
Except for these whirling lines
That I call poetry.