Silent, white-noise, open air.
Gives way to the nervous tick
Wrapped around my wrist.
Head cocked to one side, heightened.
Feeling the blood pulsate through
The usually numb cartilage of my ear lobes.
The ringing in my ears
Echoing recesses of years.
Makes me long for the tick again.
In the manufactured noise
Inside my head,
I vibe to my own rhythm,
A beat that the present has yet created,
A beat whose frequencies only I seem to hear.
My lucid dreams become nightmares.
My realities become dayscares.