Clock | A Poem

 

These winter days are running fluid together. 

I find myself being drawn in 

or rather pulled under 

A twisted iron dropped beneath the waves 

Plummeting down into the dark fathoms 

Where I'm terrified of the breath that I won't be able to take 

How can I drown out this noise?

I turn the dial, adjusting the volume Of my inner monologue 

Hoping to somehow pull myself out of it all 

But I'm swirling, 

With each gentle attempted realignment of myself 

I only antagonize the clock

Drowning in pooling red color

Swallowed in the stretching dilation of this–

My own clocks psychotic ticking

Whispering in my ear telling me I haven't done anything with my time.

Every second, every minute every hour is a chance to turn it all around and do something new. 

What do I have to show for it? 

Every glimpse I catch of my swollen face in the mirror in the darkened hours of early morning 

Remind me of my collection of 

un-accomplishments.

I am tired of the sentiment that survival is enough. 

“At least you're getting by,”

I'm tired of only ever getting by.

To only exist is to die

And that is not enough.

The things we resist will always persist 

So I won't pull away. 

I won't drown out the noise of it all. 

Time will always have an end,

And I have a decision to make 

On what I choose to do with it 

Before that second hand begins to slow 

And I feel the weight of my soul give way 

I don't belong here,

but this is anything but a prison.