Tick

I can’t tell you what makes me tick

I can’t tell me what makes me tick.

I tried to pull myself apart piece by piece, bolt by bolt,

to find out

what makes me tick.

Instead, I found a million reasons

hidden in the smallest crevices of my body,

in the tangles of muscle and meat,

quivering in my lungs and veins.

So what makes me

tick

is the feeling in my stomach upon hearing

the harmonious laughter of my Grandparents

(the wise and loving generation who

taught me strength and adoration and love).

It’s in the bittersweet taste of iced birthday cake

that congratulates me when I’ve made it another year.

I’m driven by the heartache of melancholy events

and the joys from overcoming mountainous obstacles.

The smell of upcoming thunderstorms

and stale, summer rain

make me want to travel and see if it’s

the same in other countries.

Tick

My tick makes my bones quake

with motivation and dreams and desires,

yet I can’t pinpoint the exact location of the

tick

because it’s hidden under a pile

of reasons and memories.

So, I’m sorry for the disappointment,

but I can’t tell you what makes me

tick.

Guide that inspired this poem:

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