Ticking

The sound of ticking echoes through my room. The cedar clock's minute hand moves, Mocking me with its monotone voice, Reminding me of the room In which I cannot leave. I give the clock a subtle glare And tell it to leave me be. But the more I try and stop it, The more it chaos it wishes to cause. And so the hands spin faster. The repetitive noise burns my ears, But the clock finds it amusing, Laughing at my pain, Taking joy in my tears, And speeds up its pace. The spinning motion is hypnotizing, Spinning like the wheels of a bike, Except people knew when to stop. The clock will not. And it quickens again. The wood creaks and screeches, So loudly yet never breaking. It melds with my own Until I cannot tell which is mine. It turns and turns again. Blood-curdling noise all in a rhythm, Never-ending screams of pain. I try and close my ears to block them, But it only gets louder. I'm descending into madness. Then, it suddenly comes to a halt. The clock tips and shatters across the floor As the doors finally open. After all this time. I'm free. The clock will bother me no more.