Big hand is Minutes and Short hand is Hours

Both take my time and waste it as I try,

Try as hard as I can to read a clock, It's easy.

Counting by fives, It's one of the rare things I can

Do, but it doesn't match up once I look at the face

Faces confuse me, Blame it on the disability passed down from Mother and Father to Me,

Broken, like the face of a clock 

when the frustration gets to me because

This is what seems to define me as a person

That she can't read a clock, She's 17

Can't do basic math or read a map

The minute hand and hour hand closing in a cup around me and the thin

lines around the edge like bars of a prison--

"She can't read a clock".