Surrealist Poem

Surrealist Poem

Tic.

Toc.

Tic.

Toc.

The sound of my clock goes

Tic.

Toc.

My war torn heart is too messed up and isolated.

Incubated.

Immaculated.

Emulated by my peers because I know how to love.

I’m perspiring because I can’t think of anything that will suffice.

I’m trying to fill a void with cement that wont bond.

All the while we spend our cries

On fickle faces,

On empty gazes.

We can't mistake our places.

And in case you forgot,

Truth sees the last of it.

So don’t wade through all the bullshit.

Tears conceal the empty signs that don’t fit.

Grow louder.

Grow stronger

You can’t wait any longer

But you’ll always be a small boy.

Ticking.

Tocking.

But as the lines go on,

So does my mind.

So does my body.

Inside my head there’s a

Tic.

Toc.

Telling me I haven’t got long.

I haven’t got long to sing my song.

But my mind goes on.

I wonder about the clocks and how monotonous and repetitive their jobs are.

Tic.

Toc.

However I envy their drive

I envy their perfect time.

I envy their realism because whether not you may realize it,

It all breaks down to

Tic.

Toc.