Tick, tock, tick, tock,
The constant rhythm of the clock.
Counting seconds, every one
Until our time on Earth is done.
At one I was just a gurgling baby,
Lying on a playmat, laughing at the sky.
At four I was just a wandering toddler,
Pointing to objects
and questioning "why?"
At seven I was just a hardworking schoolgirl
With toys in my bedroom and games in my head.
At ten I was just an amateur musician
And we shouldn't forget
I was very well read.
At thirteen I was just a grief-stricken student,
Who wept for a granddad with love left to give.
At sixteen I am just a depressed teenager,
Trying to search for a reason to live.
At eighteen I will be turning an adult.
Or will I? Will I simply be dead?
At eighty, I could be a doting grandma,
Giving out cuddles and stories in bed.
But I doubt it; I will probably be dead.
Will I last? Will I fight? Will my future get better?
Or will I give up saying why in a letter?
Nobody knows what the future will bring
But the way things are going it might be nothing.
Tick, tock, tick, tock,
The ruthless rhythm of the clock.
Counting seconds, every one
Until our time on Earth is done.
Will we ever find a way to make it stop?
YOU ARE READING
Into the Depths of Despair
Poetry"I sometimes find, and I am sure you know the feeling, that I simply have too many thoughts and memories crammed into my mind. At these times, I use the Pensieve. One simply siphons the excess thoughts from one's mind, pours them into the basin, and...
