Loud Clock

I'm tired, please stop.

It's late, and I'm starting to hate

the sound of the hands on the clock.

Counting every minute, every hour

That you two fight and bite

And tear at each other's hearts.

Weren't you happy?

taking his hand, wandering 

Around quiet streets and empty parks?

Weren't you hopeless?

showing up at her doorstep

when it was already way past dark?

Weren't you...in love?

Both thinking, this is the one,

right from the very start?

now, she roams to be alone.

now, he flees to be set free.

now, they wonder,

Perhaps it was just never meant to be?

Nothing really had caused us to be torn asunder.

it was just never meant to be.

they hurl lies intended to hurt,

sharp little pins

in the coffin of their love. 

I am the consequence of their blunder.

I just want it to stop

but nothing can drown out the clock.

not the wind, rain, or thunder.

so instead I lay on my bed

take out this old, beat up notebook

and write.

I write of before, now, and after.

I write of crying, quiet, and laughter.


I write of my fears, hopes and dreams.

nothing is louder than the clock

Except for these whirling lines

That I call poetry.

This poem is about: 
My family


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