Ugh, I hate writing poetry. I always feel like a douche.

I've been known to sit for hours, listening to the ticking of my clock.
I sit, quiet and relaxed by its soothing mark of time. Its gentle metric slowly carving out the day in perfect little bites. Some day my clock will stop. Though I keep it clean and safe and wind it when I should, I know some day its calming beat will end. Will it wind down slowly or stop like a shot?
I'm terrified of that day.
The day my little clock stops ticking, what will I do? Who could I be without its quiet progression, its metronomic patience. Someday the quiet will descend and who I am will go away, becoming something terrible in my absence. But not today.
Today I sit, alone and happy. Listening to the ticking of my clock.

The End

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