clock
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Tongues longing for emotions flowing with wind of luxurious eve
Yearning glide from caves of creatively unweave and heave
My first word was “tick tock”
My favorite blanket had clocks on it
I am and was and always will be obsessed with clocks
And with the idea of time
Hickory, dickory, dock. Three mice ran up the clock. The clock struck one, and down two run, mourning the terrible loss.
Another day
passes by
like the tickety tock of the clock
Noticed,
but ignored
Forgotten as one indevidual tick,
Remembered as a whole
Tick, tock, tickety tock.
2:57 is the first thing my eyes take in as the shoot wide open
The glow of my alarm clock sends me this eerie feeling
I sense extreme warmth as the once cool room has dampened
The clock shall always be the enemy,
With his hands of weaponry,
Time stamped in history,
With actions of misery.
Tick tock goes the clock,
The clock shall always be the enemy,
With his hands of weaponry,
Time stamped in history,
With actions of misery.
Tick tock goes the clock,
Every single second is counting down Tick tock tick tock, it mocks us The clock comes crashing off the wall Tick tock tick tock, it never stops And still we think, that nothing can come between.
It keeps me up at night, the gentle rhythmic reminder.
Silence only worsens the sound.
If I try to run from it, it gets closer.
Time creeps by like a spider.
Now,
we are now.
Be still, hold my hand.
We are now, and now is here.
Be here.
In this moment we have nothing else.
As the tears fall,
i fall.
Tick tock, Clock, Your face faces mine
As if by some sinister design
I'm inclined to sit and watch your hand.
Placing bets like “I dare it to move”
A tick tock noise from the clock in my room
Knocks my head on and on
Till it wakes me up in the middle of the night,
So I found myself looking right at the ceiling
My body starts sweating
The clock reads 1:23.
I am still, bathed in the green light
of the microwave.
My mind drifts from place to place
but my body
is stationary.
The clock reads 3:45.
The craftsmanship of hands at his decree
Tells a story of what was and what will soon be
A keeper is what you may call him
The precious memories of the past
Bears the utmost
Upon a time it first was bornFrom a wedding reception box with wrapping tornLetting light fall upon the newlyweds' giftSoon began to move the infant child's fists A red, roman numeral clock
Life's Clock
By: Katelyn DeShane
Tick-tock
the hands turn
round and round.
When you're young
Up there you sit and mock me, And your rhythm, Oh it haunts me, You resound within my skull Like a rock against a hull While I lay in bed at night You remind me of your might And I swear I'll take no more Cause you shake me to the core So I'll ri
The clock keeps ticking,
but I am just standing.
Its like I am walking,
without any landing.
I hope to walk upon another day,
as the clock of life keeps ticking, ticking away.
I reached out
And held on to the whispers
Of my past
With time prying away at my Soul
Afraid of letting go
And falling into her Grasp
tick tock.
tick tock.
you’re running out of time.
you’re going to be too late.
tick tock
tick tock
Tick Tock
The clock above our old TV tormented me,
it’s red numbers screaming distress every time they blinked
Where is he?
Each and every second is unique.
Like fingerprints and sunsets,
they are never the same.
Each moment is its own.
Everytime the clock moves its hand
the present becomes past and,
No, I won’t cease
Yes, I won’t stop
Maybe you know me
As the face of a clock
I am like a river,
I have a flow
You can go with me,
Ten minutes is ticking.
Can't find the time losing such minutes.
Close to such hours I wait patiently, for my moment to shine.
I ask myself when will that be?
Tick
Tock
Two hands
On a clock
Six to twelve
At two o’clock
Five chimes ring,
Schoolhouse rock
Ticking red hand,
Metered like Bach;
Cursive Roman numbers
Tomorrow Tomorrow
That is when you will be all mine
When our hands fold like cards
When I feel your marrow against mine
Time is flying by faster than I can blink.
Or time has stopped completely, I think...
What has become of this place?
Is there no distance between time and space?
I believe my time's run out.
“And your homework is…”
Tick tock tick tock.
Staring at the clock
while the teacher says their last thoughts.
“You have survived your first week in busi…”
Tick tock tick tock.
The ticking, ticking of the clock
Repetitious, never stopped
Ticking, tocking all the day
All while the pendulum swings and sways
Oh so rhythmic and defined
Oh so soothing all the time
(read like to the beat of a metronome or a ticking clock)
Water drips,
puckered lips.
Tapping sounds,
making rounds.
Hitting bars,
counting stars.
one, two, three, four.
Like the hands on a clock
…move
Like the wind in September
…blows
My mind is systematic, yet
it can flow freely like a fluid dream
Like a bowl of dust
seeping into crisp air
I forgot my watch today,
I tried to draw it on,
My hands didn't move,
and now the time is gone,
With wings of ash darkness hides me
Shadows glisten on my feathers
Burroughs, dusk, and no where near dawn
Creatures scrambling to find shelter fromthose that wait and watch for the next victim
I fight with my clockit’s faceplate staring right passed my pupils phasing through defense mechanisms resembling the thick walls of area 51my mind is the U.S. government and what I see as my mind is the U.S. population
circle of two hands
and one hastier than the rest;
in whatever shape or form
it always conforms
back to midnight from noon
and it’s too soon
to determine the monsoons
Tick, tick, tick, gears are working, spinning round,
soothing lullaby keeps me safe and sound.
Metallic wings fan out with beauty and reflects light,
fighting off the mechanical demons with fright.
Tick-tock now, hurry up and go!
The gears of this clocksmith don’t grind themselves you know.
Is your beat good? How are your hands?
Are in proper shape? I don’t like relying on the hourglass sand.
I catch its glare across the room,
I hear its choking laugh,
It’s out to get me; I can tell—
Keep it far away from me!
(poems go here) Again I write to get these thoughts
Out of the clutter of my brain
But, as the pen moves across paper, or skin,
I find they cannot contain
