truce » poetry

clocks and pictures

i look at the photos and the wide open spaces fill my chest
and it hurts
the sky is made of possibility,
fuck science,
it's made of the future and the people i'll never know
and it's hovering above all the places i want to go like going there is easy
when it's not

i want to go places
but there's a grandfather clock in my head,
and each tick sounds like a boom
and each boom knocks me to my feet
and each time it gets harder to stand back up
and i want to go places

and i see these places that i want to go
and it hurts even more
because they are always presented in a perfect moment
and don't you know that it makes everything a thousand times more unattainable?

i am suffocated by my own hometown
i will never go anywhere
and i think i just got hit by a truck,
and the grandfather clock has fallen down
and i was wrong, so wrong, each tick wasn't a boom, it was a pin dropping
because this is a boom;
the sound the clock makes as it topples
and i go back to looking at the pictures,
looking at what should fill me with hope
but fills me with hopelessness instead