The Ticking Clock: Poetry

I hear the steady ticking
of a pissed-off errant clock
that keeps on reminding me
of everything I've left to do

I want to smash it into pieces
just to make it stop
So I can stop running this marathon
that I can never get on through

It's in the background
Peeling off seconds 'till they bleed
and the redness soaks the hem
of my coat as I attempt to write

No, sir, there's been no murder here;
I haven't done the deed
It's damnable time, that constant
land mine exploding in the night

And so I wake afraid
dashing through my day
That if I don't run fast enough
I'll never finish what I should

Yet the faster I go,
the less I finish anyway
I'm too damn old to fit the mold
of the Little Woman That Could

Who was this idiot, I ask,
who equated life with time?
As if it wasn't enough that we've
got it so rough out here already

And then another daft man shackled
the minutes to a dime
So now time is money to be made
as long we hold steady

I think it's all a bunch of fluff
and the world just moves to fast
I blink and there's 100 tweets
all waiting to peruse

For all our money, nothing made
now seems to last
We run on Dunkin' and sleep on Lunesta,
an uneasy kind of truce

It's just this ticking clock,
the rabid dog of time
But my pockets are empty now,
I'm tired and haven't got a dime...

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