Oris

- The Seasons Of Grief: Chapter IV - Poem VIII -

Midnight strikes, the hands align,

A gift that will sit in my drawer for years, this watch of mine 

As I sleep, I hear the ticks that always run,

It tells me of the realities of what is to come

One day, I’ll look back at my old fridge’s glow,

And see if it’s diminished like my sanity’s flow

Through thin paper walls, I still hear heavy voices of anger,

Too depressed to let it go, so I let it linger

Three times a night, I get up and stare at the mirror, only to shake,

I toss and turn and think of my past conversational mistakes

For I hold everything within my mind, forever,

Until my age comes to pull the lever

At five o’clock, I hear my thoughts,

The echoes of battles I fought

Friendships end, family never calls,

Sick and tired, my head pounds until I fall

Seventeen years of living and I can’t show what I've earned,

The pristine dreams are all but for me to yearn

My family drifts as I put off my delay,

What if they slip too far away?

I ate my potential when I woke up in a cold sweat from a nightmare that I fell asleep to,

It was dark, and there was a still lake that I jumped through

A sunken ninety-nine highway sign signaled that my innocence had been pulled under,

A life too far gone, a day that can’t be plundered

Tin trays of Valentine’s Day cookies grow old in the cupboard,

I’ll ask what life means, then go and pray to the Lord

My little sister’s still making mud pies with Lilly in the backyard,

The imagery makes me cry, and curse myself for having made it this far

Eleven o’clock is when I always plan to finish my shower,

So that I have enough time to tend to my dead flowers

The graveyard is dim but comforting, I’ve spent quite a while here,

The ghosts calm my dread; they care for my fears

At twelve, it all begins again, so I get up to write a poem verse,

Until I heard the watch call again, then I broke down, per regular to the curse

I get a headache from it all, so I self-medicate,

There was once a hometown I’d call my own, but when I visit, I’m always too late

I feel this weight every night,

The gray has turned the hues from black to white

It’s not gotten better, it’s just easier to see,

The marks on my face show you what has happened to me

He plays the piano, which makes the scenes feel greater,

Tries to get me to see the things that will eventually make everything better

But I never got a resolution for so many things,

The sins of doctors come up every once in a while, as my phone rings

I think of breaking the glass face and ripping out the hands,

Even if it costs me my ticket to Hollywood, they’d always reprimand

I cover up with my covers for now, though, and stare at the stars above my head,

So that one day I can wear a watch, one that doesn’t remind me of the terror that my mind bred