The Tick of the Clock

I was feeling a bit lonely and just sort of wrote down how I was feeling. I haven't written poetry much at all, but was just kind of in the mood.

The clock ticks on,

Pointlessly.

Too much time

And yet not enough.

I'm irritated

When my nothingness is interrupted.

And when it's not

I'm empty.

What is the point

In fighting for a few more ticks?

Perhaps for some each tick holds weight.

Perhaps for some...

But no

Maybe everyone has too many.

How can I be tired or late

And yet so pointlessly empty.

Even when I'm full

It's never enough.

I'm a cup with a hole

That drains faster than it fills.

Maybe other people have holes too

But maybe they are smaller

And drain slower

And fill faster.

Tears leak out.

I try to hide them sometimes,

But not now.

There's no point in fighting the leak.

Tick tock, drip drop.

Maybe one day I'll miss those ticks.

I hope so since the alternative is always having too many

And yet never enough.

I still dream of a life

Where every tick and every tock

Has its value

And it doesn't just leak away.

Twenty years have leaked away

All too slowly

And yet

All too fast.

I get no do over

And sometimes I think it's too late

I have many ticks left

But can I ever make them count?

Or maybe I don't

Y can't really know

How many you have left

Until they're all gone.

And when they're all gone

I'm sure I'll regret

The ticks I wasted.

Tick tock, tick tock.

But for now

I have all the ticks in the world

But nothing to fill them with.

Tick tock, drip drop.