My Mind is a Clock

My mind is a clock;

my thoughts like cogs that are bent and misshapen,

that wobble in place and yet cannot be shaken.

The hour hand spins too slow

and the minutes tick by too fast

so time moves without a rhythm,

without precision,

this faulty mechanism can't see future or past

so it stays trapped in the present,

grasping for a presense of mind that's elusive

only coming around when the hour strikes four

and I realize the night is nearly over,

but the morning doesn't feel any closer.

There's no closure, only loose ends and broken bridges

and it all depends on whether the digits

of my clock are fixed or flexible;

are they dependable?

If not, is it fixable?

Can anyone tell me if this clock is broken

or if it's just reprehensible?

It gets worse when the clock gets dirty,

and the grime makes the cogs turn sticky and grey;

they get snagged by unwanted feelings

and stuck on fragmented memories.

Old unhealthy habits reamerge,

cleverly disguised as remedies,

and I'm too tired to notice the damage that results;

my fears and my faults

become the puppet masters for the voices in my head.

They argue and battle,

they spit and they babble

and nothing is loud enough to drown them out.

And it all comes back to this clock that I can't seem to fix,

the out of order tocks and ticks

that rule my existence,

and I know that only with persistence

is it possible for me to outdistance my failures,

but I'm exhausted;

every time I think I've caught up

I'm accosted by a new version of a person I failed to become.

My ears are dumb to the voices that tell me

My choices don't dictate my worth.

But is that true?

Are we not judged by the things that we do?

I've been through this before

and I always come away feeling sick and unsure,

knees sinking to the floor

under the pressure of needing more;

more time, more answers, more assurance that I'm somehow worth fighting for.

And I try not to think about those times,

hiding pain behind rhymes so my mind doesn't notice,

and I know this won't fix anything

but when everything is breaking

sometimes just faking a smile is all I can do,

and for a while, it's enough.

Call my bluff if you will but it won't change the way I feel;

the way I deal with my broken parts

may not be the healthiest

but I'm still here,

Aren't I?

Or am I just so entangled in the cogs

that I've strangled all the life from my sick, broken mind?

Am I confined to questioning everything I know

while these silent emotions lie festering

deep below the surface of my smile?

Do I control my own mind?

Or am I controlled by it?

Disquiet is the only answer I receive,

an unsettled weight on my chest as I breathe,

In and out, in and out,

till I drown in the doubt and uncertainty,

nervously waiting for a verdict

that never comes,

Wordlessly wasting time in worthless distraction;

what happened to make me so cold?

When did these bones become so old and weary?

When did I learn to fear me?

Clearly something must've happened,

some screw must've come loose

in this poor excuse of a mind.

But screws can be tightened, right?

Just as dark can be brightened

and wrongs righted?

And perhaps hoping in that thought,

that all I have to do is find that loose screw,

is the only way to live with these questions that haunt me,

Taunting me with their out-of-reach answers

that grow like a cancer in the back of my mind.

Either way, I'll find a way through;

a question's just a question, after all,

not a cage or a wall,

not a reason to give up trying to fix this broken clock,

with all its gimmicks and its tricks.

Because while it might be broken, grimy, and plain,

and feeds on fears deep in my brain,

for now, at least, it still ticks.