The clock

Each time there is a pain in my chest
I secretly hope that it is fatal
This lack of reason or purpose
Is more than I am able

I can hear the clock tick
That useless measurement of waste
Once it had a use it would seem
Ironically, now it’s too late

It counts like a child with an OCD
Up on the f**cking wall
It hangs there, mocking me
“What have you done at all?”

It moves round and round
Like the string of thoughts in my head
Tick tock, wake up, sleep, eat
Tick tock, one day you’re not, you’re dead