Reflections
I wrote this thing for reflections. Apparently someone liked it cuz i got some sort of award for it. I didnt even think it was that good, until i went back and re-read it after sending it to a friend. Not too shabby i would say, considering the lack of effort put into it.
I Wonder Why…
The old clock stands alone in the corner.
Dark, rich wood, standing out against stark white walls.
The dings and scratches, dents and scrapes,
marked by the weathering of life,
the weathering of time.
Tiny golden hands twitch restlessly,
bouncing with every second.
They whisper a secret in their soft rhythmic ticking.
And then the room fills with sound,
frail and tinny,
and three chimes echo out.
The earth is green,
and the lovely sand between my fingers and toes is warm.
Friendly sun shines down on my face,
as grubby hands methodically scoop sand into a green plastic bucket.
Shrieks of laughter meld with the crashing of waves into the shore.
The bucket is full.
I take the bucket and flip it over,
one mound in a row of companions.
It is a beautiful castle,
fit for a princess.
Then, like a bully come to spoil the fun,
a wave crashes,
inches its way up the sand,
and slithers beneath the golden fortress,
taking away with it my castle.
Washing it away out to the salty depths of the sea.
And then the old mahogany clock,
It chimes once again.
This time, six chimes are uttered from its hollow belly.
Above my head, harsh neon lights glow,
illuminating the classroom,
casting an eerie brightness on its denizens.
The teacher at the front of the room,
scribbling formulas I’m never going to use,
saying things I won’t remember,
save for the test.
Eyes glaze over,
the numbers scrawled in my notebook swim,
while the point of a safety-pin, clutched in my left hand, scratches a deep rut into the table.
All around I hear whispers,
angry growls and squeals of delight,
“Oh my god’s” and “Can you believe that’s.”
The language of my generation.
The impatient shuffling of papers turns to a roar as class nears its end.
The teacher is lost in the white noise.
And the bell rings,
shaking us from our slumber.
Whisking us off to the next circle of hell.
As the clock strikes once again,
I feel the walls tremble behind my head.
Nine graceful, echoing sighs,
the old clock exhales.
The smell of hot tar oozes up from the pavement,
miles of nearly stopped cars
stretch along the freeway.
The back seat of my minivan,
occupied by my youngest, in a car seat,
and her sister,
reeks of week old teddy grahams and vomit.
Horrendous shrieks exude from her tiny pink mouth,
cheeks flushed,
the stains of tears crossing her face.
Outcast skies,
threatening and dangerous,
hover above.
Horns from irritated drivers blare on all sides.
A migraine that has been forming behind my right eye grows larger with every blast.
The shrieking stops,
bubbly laughter takes its place,
resulting from the pink bear dancing jubilantly before my child.
A smile breaks out on my face.
Hearing that laugh is why I do it all,
and makes the job I hate doing and the car I hate driving on the freeway I hate using all worth it.
As if the laughter tipped the first domino,
the gloomy skies break,
revealing shining blue heavens.
Traffic begins to move,
and the beautiful sweet laughter continues.
Once more the clock chimes,
twelve ringing notes.
I look at the clock,
memories of my past float by,
serene butterflies flitting in the breeze.
Wisps of frail gray hair fall into my face,
and pale withered hands lay at my sides.
As I lie in my deathbed,
waiting patiently for my time,
my old clock sits in the corner,
clicking rhythmically.
All I can think,
all I wonder,
I wonder why,
why oh why oh why,
does time have to move so quickly?
I Wonder Why…
The old clock stands alone in the corner.
Dark, rich wood, standing out against stark white walls.
The dings and scratches, dents and scrapes,
marked by the weathering of life,
the weathering of time.
Tiny golden hands twitch restlessly,
bouncing with every second.
They whisper a secret in their soft rhythmic ticking.
And then the room fills with sound,
frail and tinny,
and three chimes echo out.
The earth is green,
and the lovely sand between my fingers and toes is warm.
Friendly sun shines down on my face,
as grubby hands methodically scoop sand into a green plastic bucket.
Shrieks of laughter meld with the crashing of waves into the shore.
The bucket is full.
I take the bucket and flip it over,
one mound in a row of companions.
It is a beautiful castle,
fit for a princess.
Then, like a bully come to spoil the fun,
a wave crashes,
inches its way up the sand,
and slithers beneath the golden fortress,
taking away with it my castle.
Washing it away out to the salty depths of the sea.
And then the old mahogany clock,
It chimes once again.
This time, six chimes are uttered from its hollow belly.
Above my head, harsh neon lights glow,
illuminating the classroom,
casting an eerie brightness on its denizens.
The teacher at the front of the room,
scribbling formulas I’m never going to use,
saying things I won’t remember,
save for the test.
Eyes glaze over,
the numbers scrawled in my notebook swim,
while the point of a safety-pin, clutched in my left hand, scratches a deep rut into the table.
All around I hear whispers,
angry growls and squeals of delight,
“Oh my god’s” and “Can you believe that’s.”
The language of my generation.
The impatient shuffling of papers turns to a roar as class nears its end.
The teacher is lost in the white noise.
And the bell rings,
shaking us from our slumber.
Whisking us off to the next circle of hell.
As the clock strikes once again,
I feel the walls tremble behind my head.
Nine graceful, echoing sighs,
the old clock exhales.
The smell of hot tar oozes up from the pavement,
miles of nearly stopped cars
stretch along the freeway.
The back seat of my minivan,
occupied by my youngest, in a car seat,
and her sister,
reeks of week old teddy grahams and vomit.
Horrendous shrieks exude from her tiny pink mouth,
cheeks flushed,
the stains of tears crossing her face.
Outcast skies,
threatening and dangerous,
hover above.
Horns from irritated drivers blare on all sides.
A migraine that has been forming behind my right eye grows larger with every blast.
The shrieking stops,
bubbly laughter takes its place,
resulting from the pink bear dancing jubilantly before my child.
A smile breaks out on my face.
Hearing that laugh is why I do it all,
and makes the job I hate doing and the car I hate driving on the freeway I hate using all worth it.
As if the laughter tipped the first domino,
the gloomy skies break,
revealing shining blue heavens.
Traffic begins to move,
and the beautiful sweet laughter continues.
Once more the clock chimes,
twelve ringing notes.
I look at the clock,
memories of my past float by,
serene butterflies flitting in the breeze.
Wisps of frail gray hair fall into my face,
and pale withered hands lay at my sides.
As I lie in my deathbed,
waiting patiently for my time,
my old clock sits in the corner,
clicking rhythmically.
All I can think,
all I wonder,
I wonder why,
why oh why oh why,
does time have to move so quickly?