I leer at those two hovered hands
always moving paced, like my breath.
They read 11:03 not that it means
much to me.
I continue with my day.
Do my regular rue-teen.
I have my watch anchored on my wrist,
worn and delicate.
Neglected and ignored.
Its honest face glares at me, hurling
a message I again overlook.
Tick, tock, tick, tock.
In a hollow, vacant room
calling out.
Muted warnings, screaming
again rejected.
Leisurely giving in, gradually
drifting softer.
Its petite frame cracks,
its mind unwinds, silence fills the room
a silence no one can ignore.
I see, my watch has died. Annie Dennis is fifteen years old. She has been writing ever since she could but only recently started writing poetry. She also loves to write songs, play the guitar, sing, listen to music, dance, paint/draw, and photography.
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