You think writing is for money
Is about been responsible for at least one thing in your life
You think working is for money
Is about been doing great in a chosen field of passion you live
You may love to prove me wrong
Is a way to develop your own lying tongue
You may still want to be strong
Is just a mess of disturbance by your brain so young
Don't be of shame
The ideas we have may not be the same
But really you do have a different aim
Just don't wanna hold the claim
You can still take it back
"Am not your spec"
Not your type either may ache
Gat to move on like you watching the clock
Guy, I don't like the look in your eyes
Is just too simple and weak
Guy, you don't wanna break tiles
Is the best way to have your unique says speak
Tick tock, tick tock
If I don't get help I'm going to drop
Tick tock, tick tock
Sleep deprivation is a ticking clock
Tick tock, tick tock
My body's about to go into shock
Tick tock, tick tock
My mind has hit a massive road block
Tick tock, tick tock
All I hear is knock knock knock
Tick tock, tick tock
All I'm doing is watching the clock
Can't sleep, can't eat
Can't sit still in my moulded seat
Can't concentrate, brain turned off
I hope this breakdown is a one off
Figures moving, I am scared
Can't lift my legs to go down the stairs
Voices talking, their so loud
It's like I'm standing in a crowd
Want to die but want to live
Undecided if I'll survive
Tick tock, tick tock
There it is that damn clock
Turn it off, it needs to end
I take back all iv said
Tick tock, tick tock
All I hear is knock knock knock
Time to end or time to begin
I have to find the strength within
Tick tock, tick tock
It's my mind I need to lock
Tick tock, tick tock
Tick tock, tick tock
Tick tock, tick tock
It's the end, iv smashed the clock
Watching the clock tick
I am surrounding myself with walls
unable to find a value
of life or matter
Its unfortunate really,
when the sun is shinning
and the wind is blowing.
The air that fills my lungs with life
is left outside.
Where am I going
When will I be found
Nothing is simple,
but we carve it clean—
label it, box it,
turn a question into a rule,
a rule into a law,
a law into a weapon,
and call the wreckage order.
We crave control,
but sharpen our knives in chaos.
We demand honesty,
but crucify the truth.
We worship free thought,
but silence it before it speaks.
We want change,
but only if it looks
like what we already know.
A zebra is the only thing
that looks good in black and white.
Everything else—
everything real—
drowns in the blur between.
We say we hate the system,
but gut each other
before we ever fight it.
We demand peace,
but kneel to the loudest fist.
We claim we want the truth,
but only if it sings us to sleep.
The universe isn’t laughing.
It’s watching the clock.
Time is running out.
“The worst is feeling worthless.” Quote: Donald Glover
I tip the scales.
Life curtails.
In luminous light
To suffer delight.
Yielding bend.
New age trend.
Wanting to break.
Now awake.
Softly spoken.
Appearing broken.
Never cherished.
Hopes perished.
Always alone.
Hearts of stone.
Meandering.
Never pandering.
Solace is mine.
Gives me a sign.
I wander on.
Comfort gone.
Feeling free.
Serendipity.
Born of the earth.
Little worth.
Mother of mine.
Minds entwine.
Often mistake.
For angels sake.
Wishes plummet.
Unreachable summit.
Never to be.
Don’t pity me.
All forlorn.
Vow is sworn.
Radical change.
Must rearrange.
Nights slip by.
Wondering why.
Wander to edges.
Witness alleges.
Of life’s torment.
Self can only repent.
Watching the clock.
Taking stock.
Time is tragic.
Feel the magic.
Wont commence.
Its all pretense.
Solitary one knows.
Let the door close.
Beat a different drum.
Let the doubters come.
Find my heart.
Don’t let teardrops start.
Bequeath to me.
All that’s free.
Guide me to bliss.
A lollypop kiss.
The forlorn sorrows.
Yesterday’s tomorrows.
Of this earth.
Absolutely no worth.
Watching the clock I'm wary of time,
listening to words that mean nothing to me
If I could do better and take useful notes,
then maybe the lesson I could finally agree
It's no good to be different in Sex Ed,
what if I don't plan to date a man?
They don't talk of subjects I care of at all,
and frankly, I'm not really a fan
My BSF, only 16, calls in a panic,
within herself lies an unwanted child
Told to save herself she didn't know,
her late childhood is now defiled
These problems seem unique,
but don't be obstinance
As our schools only teach us abstinence
Reflecting light
burning so white
breaks softly applied
to gentle stop
shifter is grasped
and clicks into park
break is released
and turn off the lights
ignition turned off
and radio left on
slump down in the seat
and watching the clock
seconds flow by
as time flees away
till I must go in
for another day
always the last
to punch in the clock
always the last
to enter in
sometimes the days
and hours rushed by
yet often still
minutes drag by
always the same
for too many years
wondering just when
and how it will end
last to clock out
and walk away
dreading again
the coming day
Sitting. Quiet. Alone.
Distractions pass through.
Waiting. Nothing to do.
Watching the clock.
Two hours.
Hell to me is standing six foot behind the person putting their groceries on the conveyer
It is watching the clock the last ten minutes at work, wishing I could leave
It is listening to the news, which is why I no longer do that.
Hell to me is finding out when I die
That there is no soul.
Monday means rise and shine,
get out of bed and be at work on time,
it's a day some consider makes them blue
when full of stress and crying too.
Tuesday gives us our second wind,
makes up for the tiring day before
as we hustle our bustle throughout the day,
relieved when we are headed home as we pray.
Wednesday is over-the-hump part of the week,
catching up with thoughts that were filed
within the cobwebs of our busy minds galore,
remembering to pick up a frozen pizza at the store.
Thursday is inching closer to the weekend,
a wormy sort of day taking forever to end,
as it progresses on the clock of slow motion
wanting to give it a shot of magic potion.
Friday is the barometer measuring the week,
working each day makes some feel in the pink,
watching the clock until closing time
knowing we earned every dime.
Saturday means sleeping in late,
alarms are not set to get us out of bed,
eating a leisurely breakfast is a treat,
pancakes and coffee can't be beat.
Sunday is the end of the week,
a day of worship and singing hymns,
afterward a dinner at home sweet home,
then a nap to end this very long poem.
The old man looked at his hands
Scarred and callused as the work demands
He had bent his back building things
A weathered brow is what hardship brings
He tilled the soil behind the plough
From morning till night each lesson learning how
Growing his crop with his own hands
The sun and rain a part of his plans
The woman he married was of pioneer stock
Who knew the worth of not watching the clock
She made a home to rest their heads
At the end of each day in their bed
But the rain can be fickle on the land
And does not come at your command
So cattle and sheep die one by one
And crops fail baking in the sun
So we sit and wait watching the azure blue
Wanting rain to break the drought too
But scars run deep in the soil and soul
To return to what once was is their only goal.
© Paul Warren Poetry
Bored out of my mind
Watching the clock on the wall
Wondering why I came in
When I didn't get a call
I was not requested here
Not needed or summoned
But yet here I am
I came willing and runnin
Came here to help if I can
But its hard to find work
This place is a ghost town
Feeling useless is the worst
So I will pass my time
With pen in my hand
Write down whats on my mind
Avoid being a bored man
To my best I am trying
To occupy my time here
Hopefully it goes by quick
Smooth, clean and clear
It will soon enough come
For me to clock out
Not time to head for the door
I'm stuck here for now
A few more hours to go
Shouldnt be all that hard
But this might be my
One and only graveyard
Written 3-14-19
Watching the clock is silly.
I know this as I waste Hours on this.
Wasting my precious minutes
As if I will have them again tomorrow. Sure...
Feeling the pain as the solstice is waning
Counting the days till the end brings me home
Keeping a smile through the mess I am wading
Wondering why I am here all alone
Lost in a dreamscape of past tense distractions
Spent too much time with my foot on the floor
Watching the clock seems my new fascination
Boy is it slow, so much now than before
Can’t wait that long behind rush hour traffic
Winter is near and it’s colder than hell
What can I do if my heart isn’t in it
Who out there cares if I’ve something to tell
Taking each step with my eyes facing forward
Still indecision becomes my new friend
Where would I be if I traveled this distance
Without direction and no place to end
Oh well, it seems that the road I am walking
Will lead me back to the place I can rest
If I pursue what my life has been missing
All at the same time while passing the test
Not sure that I want to grow very old
worrying about heating feeling cold
living on my own surly that’s no fun,
just memories of life, what I’ve done
do I need to suffer with aches and pain
concerns of dementia or going insane,
thoughts of not getting out, stuck indoors
unable to do everyday jobs and chores,
needing help to get in and out the shower
sitting watching the clock hour after hour,
arthritis in my knees, elbows, and hips
loss of appetite just living on oven chips,
daily pills supposedly keeping me alive
longing, awaiting the grim reaper to arrive,
becoming frail, needing help to keep clean
thoughts of family members but never seen,
don’t think I want to grow very old, decrepit
want to stay young, healthy, strong, intrepid,
so what choices do I have, perhaps just one
such thoughts are saddening and so wrong.
Fiction.
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