November 7, 2011

Poetry Scribble: Time Travel Poetry!

Well, sort of. Anyway, here we go.

Stuck Clock

Time travel is nothing.
Eyes closed carelessly,
you’re propelled backwards,
pinballing, ragdolled,
against the colored lights,
endlessly spinning over and over,
turbine creating hydroelectrics
while you try to breathe,
lungs burning,
each finger cracking in half,
forces making grip impossible,
and that’s just the first tick.

Caffeinated, nervous
I spin in my office chair
licking cracked lips,
claws digging into padded arm rests.
The alarm clock blinks
trying to bring me into focus
but it’s futile.
I’m in the future.

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