Fractals / Empaths

A ripe gripe smacked in tacky spit through thin lips,
a wet grape pressed tight between old mauve stained fingertips,
inflection a sharp vice,
clenched teeth behind my eye.
Tugging the cardinal tether,
the demur within the protest has spiderwebbed,
shattered feathers.
Poignant, myopic, idle, distorted.
Complaints so shallow, amplified
as if of great importance.
The sound of continued cavil,
is a hammered wedge congesting my mind.
He dissipates a mental estate, unloads,
clouding my state of mind.

Philosophy of Time

The hardest part of waiting
it watching the clock —tick, tick.

Strapped around my wrist,
in a world that’s rushing by,
I’m watching the sliver of gold slide —tick, tick.

The time is merely, relative to my existence,
without this piece of metal I’d have no regard
nor care even, for how many times the plate slides —tick, tick.

Though I note this little circle counts even paces,
with thoughts of you, when my heart races,
I can feel the weight of it, slowing —tick, tick.

I can lift my head and watch the whirling of the city fly,
not missing a pace, all those busy, rushed, lives.
While my wrist slowly pulses —tick, tick.

My heart beats fast and the highway hustles along.
But I’m always waiting, watching the clock, slowly drag along.
Time, is just an idea. It’s not real, and it doesn’t really matter.
I tell myself all this, waiting for the last tick, to leave my heart shattered.