Awkward Author's Note
okay, so this is my first submission on here, and even though I feel like this poem has a ton of mistakes, I'm oddly proud of it and I would definitely appreciate some constructive criticism!
anyways, this is just a little padlock poem I wrote when I couldn't sleep. I hope you enjoy!
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She hated that sound, that infernal tick-tock, tick-tock,
she hated how it was produced by that hideous clock.
He sat there, smiling and grinning away,
as his never ending tick-tocking continued to play.
How could she even focus through that odious racket?
She hated that clock, and wished she could smack it.
"Oh, please," she sighed, "won't you just quit? It's so un-creative and I'm so sick of it!"
"No," the clock replied, "there's much to be done, and I'm afraid it's just how I run.
This ticking, you see, is my heart.
Without it, my dear, I'd surely part."
"If you don't stop," she desdained,
"I'll rip you open and cause you a ton of pain!"
"But it's not my time to go, dear," the clock quietly said.
And he smiled a smile with a gentle shake of his head.
So she raged and stormed and walked off to bed.
She decided she couldn't rest 'til she saw that clock dead.
"I'll kill him," she hissed, her frustrated hands forming into fists.
"He'll learn that I'm not to be easily dismissed.
Once it's morning I'll fling him into the wall,
and break him to pieces, once and for all."
"Oh, but it's not my time," the clock quipped from behind his door, which was slightly ajar.
"By the way, your voice travels quite far.
I do hope you know you're wasting your breath,
by plotting my own untimely death."
Death? Oh, she couldn't help but to laugh.
Death was over much too fast.
Death was like slumber, and this clock was a pest,
and all she could think of was to give him a rest.
No, she needed something better.
Let his face become ruined, his gears become fettered,
his golden smile rust, and his ticking be drowned--
She suddenly began to think she should write this down.
With blood for ink and pale skin for paper,
she began to think and sketch her plans,
of all the torments she would inflict on that idiotic clock,
who had ticked and tocked and most certainly mocked.
Her canvasses grew and her paintings were grisly,
as the nights became cold and the days became drizzly.
And just when she thought her newest plan was sublime,
he would chuckle and proclaim, "It's simply not time."
And then she was forced back to the drawing board, all out of skin,
so she sculpted her devilish plans from the tissues within.
They grew ever more fiendish with each passing day,
but the clock remained smiling, and all he could say was,
"No no, my dearest, it isn't time yet.
Let's just see how creative a little notebook can get."
Creative?! Oh, she'd show him creative all right.
She'd drench him in petrol and set him alight,
watching him scream in fright.
His screams would be a fantastic symphony to hear,
and he would no longer be mocking her, not then, "my dear".
He would finally give her the regard she deserved.
Once his fate had been sealed and his punishments fairly served,
and his body lay limp and broken on the ground,
he would finally see the wonderful artist he luckily found.
When she finally ran out of sinew and flesh,
and the clock had incited her ire afresh,
she made a last ditch effort to finish her art.
She reached in and pulled out her still beating heart.
She handed it over and lastly put it inside,
and she stumbled backward and looked at it with pride.
She grinned and stammered, "It's gone. No more."
At last, all that was left of her fell to the floor.
That clock finally arose from his place,
no longer bearing that smile upon his face.
Slowly he approached her, with a measured tread,
and he lifted her up and toted her to bed.
She was light as a feather, silenced at last,
and so he laid beside her, thinking about thoughts from the past.
He wanted to cry, but he wouldn't ruin his pride,
so he leaned down and whispered,
"It's time," with a quiet sigh.
Caressing the bones of his passed on bride,
his hands slowly came to a rest
as his batteries
peacefully
died.
