Im running down
Slow
Tired
Tick. Tick. Tick
Always watched
Waited on
Groans when im not just right
Eyes on me until the
very. last. Second.
A lesson to be taught
A thing to be calculated
Every day is the same
Running around in a circle
One step at a time
For an inevitable eternity
The day’s flattery flattens into disturbance,
glowering as arms weaken,
my ears seek solace,
a soundproofed room,
lit by candle flickers in the dark,
I miss a peek all I can, trying
with might not to notice
its shadow who's espied me
ignoring audiovisuals
of melted clocks
and tick tocks echoing
In a Dalí pixel I dwell,
in his obscurity I fall
The Sandman
won’t get me,
asleep, not this time
when Tahira died.
I won’’t nudge
the pendulum
back to ticking-tock
time or constant
living
until I feel alive
again.
“
We taught the silence to wear our name,
called it tomorrow, a fragile frame,
hung every heartbeat on a melting seam.
hours sag like sleep from a wounded tree,
minutes forget who they’re meant to be,
the past hums heavy in the ribs of me.
then two lost clocks began to align,
your breath finding time inside of mine,
as if our souls had rehearsed this climb.
I followed my shadow through folded air,
measured my worth by the depth of care,
until your presence answered the prayer.
meaning arrives when the chase stands still,
when love interrupts the force of will,
and yet here we are.
Racing against backward clocks
I see it slipping away
Like water through finger tips
When it hits the clay
to bone,
He soften his edges
But one look in your eyes
He turns to stone
Still solid inside,
He solemnly pledges
But even the strongest foundations
Can crack at the seams
When time comes to theive,
All thats left is our dreams
Like to stay up late
Brutal mornings always roll around too soon
So desperately need more Zzzz's
Wordku: 5-7-5 words
AP: Honorable Mention 2025
Tick tock where clocks turn back
Each hand for hand me back
Two times for going to that
Back track for hour's at
Docked time for landing on
What hour's erased for gone
Stopped time for haven't had
Not time for doing nad
First time for being said
Next time an hour's dead
Lost time for being there
No time for repeat wear
Host time for living well
Changed time for living Hell
Melting clocks on branches of thought, dripping seconds into the ocean,
My consciousness—a whirl of shadows and lights dancing chaotically,
Seeking the truth hidden behind the wax masks of reality.
Words collapse like autumn leaves, leaving silence behind,
Stripping away layers of artificial knowledge, illusory certainties,
Until I stand naked before the boundless mirror of existence.
I discover that truth is not a treasure to be found, but a veil to be lifted,
From the eyes of a mind weary from so much futile searching outward,
When all that was needed was to look inward, into the void full of whispers.
I unfold like a lotus flower under the moonlight,
Petal by petal, I let go of false identities, of roles played,
Until only the pure essence remains, unaltered by time and thought.
In this profound silence, I hear for the first time the melody of truth,
A song without notes, a symphony of the creative void,
And I understand that awakening is not a journey, but a return home.
They gather beneath flickering neon,
in narrow alleys where the pavement remembers rain,
where glasses clink like distant thunder
and the air smells of sweat, stale tobacco, and old promises.
A woman’s laughter, cracked and sharp,
spills into the room like broken shards;
a man leans on the bar—his elbow’d sorrow
ordering another round, trading hours for oblivion.
The jukebox—wounded, nostalgic—
grinds out a song of ghosts and faded dreams.
Bartender’s hands shake between bottles
as shadows press against the windows, watchers wanting in.
Walls scribbled with names never spoken—
with hearts shattered, hopes pawned.
Outside, the city coughs, writhes in sleepless neon;
inside, time stands still, drunk and defiant.
We are all believers here—
in the altar of amber liquor,
the hymn of poured whiskey,
in the communion of husbands and strangers.
Midnight cracks open like a broken mirror—
edges sharp, reflection distorted.
Beer calls; gin beckons;
the bouncer counts bodies, not sins.
And when the music fades,
when the lights cut low—
they linger, some to forget, others to feel everything
in the hollow between heartbeats.
At first his anger was hotter than July
Or, rather, he was plundered by the weight of
Sorrow —heavier than the ice of January;
The kind of stolid ice that thickened Niagara Falls
Like frozen soup.
He was tall and lissome, bespectacled, in
Dark suits, a brown hat, worn-out shoes of fraternity.
A folded umbrella accompanied him like a touring child.
No wristwatch.
He doesn’t wear them.
Asked why, he normally replies, “There are many public clocks”.
Stocks have plunged
Every expert he asked shared the same opinion?
Stocks are like seesaws —
They rise and fall.
Before then he had assumed that “rise-and-fall”
Was only for dictators,
And of course empires.
And every public clock he glanced up at
Had the same opinion on time? it ticks away,
Slowly, but perfectly.
And if you want to do time,
Then hurry over life importunately.
I have lived before the clocks were wound,
When silence spoke and stars made sound.
My hands once etched in temple stone,
The prayers of kings, yet slept alone.
I knew the scent of burning leaves,
In Vedic dawns, beneath fig trees.
I sang where Nile met desert wind,
A priest of fire, a soul thick-skinned.
In Rome, I wore the thinker’s face,
In chains of thought, not bound by place.
In robes of law or sacred thread,
I judged the living and the dead.
A scroll, a blade, a feathered pen—
Each life I bled and breathed again.
In Florence I lit minds like flame,
But died unknown, without a name.
In shadowed courts of Genghis' reign,
I walked as ghost through steppe and plain.
I sought the Truth in every creed,
But never tamed the soul's deep need.
Through monks and maps, through ink and war,
I crossed the seas to distant shore.
Each time reborn with memory dim,
Yet haunted by the silent hymn.
Now here I stand, the circle tight,
With one last fire to birth the night.
I’ve seen the rise and fall of men—
But will I walk this Earth again?
The bell rings down the street. In his hand is a chilled glass. Nothing in this room is sweet. Darkness consumes the room. Time runs out until there is none left.
The bell rings down the street. The bright white gown hangs in the closet. Her heart feels incomplete. The clock tics and it feels like it'll never stop.
The bell rings down the street. With every smooth chime, more is at stake. Time to admit defeat. Times up.
clocks decided to slow Friday down
did it in every office all over town
office workers stared at four-fifty for an hour
the clocks felt respected, loved their power
"Time... Always here but never here." By Poet
Time my funny friend,
I cannot see you or feel you.
Yet time you are always with me,
from morning until night.
The clocks tick off,
the many minutes and hours.
The calendar takes off the 365 days,
52 weeks and the 12 months.
Time where do you live,
out in space or in the clocks?
My friend you like to hide and play with me,
and with each new day you are right on time.
Time you are my best friend when I am happy or,
my enemy when I am hurt or sad.
Some folks think of themselves as humans searching for a spiritual awakening when the fact is that you are a spiritual being, attempting to cope with a human awakening.
Seeing oneself from a perspective of the spirit within will help you remember why and what you came here to begin creating.
In a higher dimension, there exists no time, nor darkness, nothing is physical or corporeal, and those that reside there are entities of light.
In reality, there is no time but only a construct of human measurement, known as clocks separating day from night.
Realms of higher frequency, greater sensitivity, and a density of colors unseen by humans are all around us.
Understanding that you are much more than you see in the mirror is the beginning of self-trust.
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