Tick. Tock.
I am a clock
I am a full of cogs
Cogs that push
Cogs that pull
Relying on each other
For movement
For life

They spin my hands across my face
In a perfect rhythm
In the perfect way
Tick
Tock
Tick
Never a change
Never a new tune
They spin my hands across my face

My Cogs are perfect
Complex
Each one required
They alone can make
My rhythm
The design is special
My maker’s handiwork
Unique
I am understood by few
Those who study long
Specialists
And those who really try
Those who look long

Tick. Tock.
I have been wound
I will tick and tock
Until the day I don’t
When my hands stop
Whey my rhythm dies
When my cogs rust
Tick.
Tock.

Tick.

Tick-Tock
I am a clock
I am a girl
A chaotic mess
To those who can’t see
The handcrafted cogs
That turns the smile up
That winds the tears down
Specially crafted
One of a kind

Each of my cogs hand crafted
One scrawled with words
One painted
One hard as steal
One glows
One full of thoughts
Each of my cogs hand crafted

My cogs are flawed
But they are
Mine alone
My rhythm and song
My mess
My chaos
Understood by my maker
And those who try
Really try
Those who love
By choice
Those who look
Twice

I have been wound
To tick and tock
Until the day I don’t
My ticks have meaning
Each a tock a purpose
On the day I don’t
I pray my cogs are still
A mess
A beautiful chaos
Of push and pull
Or dreams and regrets
Of memories
Of me

Tick. Tock.
I am a clock
I am a girl
I am so much