One clock, Two clocks, Three clocks four
I simply can't stand the ticking anymore.
The hour is late yet the clocks are awake
more so than I, and they've yet to take a break.

I cover my ears in hopes of fading
into a deep tickless sleep which I've been belating.
Debating whether or not it should be allowed
by the clocks that tick so loud and so proud.

I try with my all and I try with my might
but the clock on the wall is not too bright
it will not compromise with my droopy dark eyes
that plead it to stop ticking, it ignores my cries.

So I turn to the clock on the night table beside
the bed where I lay and I try to reside
for the hour is late and the clocks are still awake
yet they show no mercy, it's more than I can take.

I drown out the sound as think I am sick
because I think that  the clocks only tick just for kicks
they sleep during the day but only at night
do they jump to a start and blare at my blight.

So I've come to a conclusion that I should have reached long ago
I've disposed of the clocks, they're buried in the snow
For the hour is late and the clocks are buried deep
Without thinking twice I drift off to sleep.

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Author guidance for This poem

Hey everyone, I am writing this, and the hour, as you've probably already guessed, is late. Yes, this is a true story as there are multiple clocks surrounding me preventing me from catching my z's, only I have not yet buried them in the snow. ... Where's my shovel? FaithBased.

updated Nov 23 '08 by Inkfathom