​Clocks no longer tick or tock
So the poet, whoever that really is,
I mean really, is it merely those
Deemed publishable?
Those who’ve been trained?
Or even better, the street poets,
Whose grit and determination
I know nothing of;
Those really clever folks who
Know iambic pentameter
Through training or some grace of some creator
You know…those who know how to correctly write a flesh and blood haiku
Because apparently all of these un-Japanese teachers
Believe it or not, know the right way to do so

Anyway, back to that clock
And that poet who
Cannot mention the tick tock,
Psst…the younger crowd won’t get the intended dramatic effect,
Or the use of semi-colons
Here, I use them for spite.
Aware the amateur editor down the hall at my office
Will question the validity of all my punctuation
Or lack thereof
And if I should be using thereof,
That sort of thing pisses her off.
Come to think of it, I do hate improper punctuation and
Unnecesary lead-ins like anyway,
Which I used above to let the reader know
At the start of line 15 that
I am fully aware I got off track, 15 being my birthdate gives it symbolic consequence,
or so some would say.

In any case, the poet who would
Decide to use the tick tock of the clock
To describe the backdrop
Annoyance of a clock when trying to fall
Asleep when he cannot fall asleep
And I use he loosely, because right now,
A poet feels more like a man
Who cannot fall asleep than a woman
Who cannot fall asleep,
And because men seem to like clocks and noises,
More than they like to use feelings for the same purpose,
To describe, I mean.
Mostly though, because I am a girl,
And I feel less and less like a poet every day.
Although there are great female poets whose
Words and construction on a page
Bring me to my knees
Or at least make me tear up.
I am just not one of them

But back to that clock
With its tick tock
Of which I am acutely aware
Poet or not, (probably less so, than more so)
Whose ticks and tocks bang out a now silent, but still vigilant reminder
That time is running out.
And every writer out there feels
Every rejection counting
Against that clock
No matter how many times
They are told by some inattentive friend that J.K. Rowling…
She was rejected, like 59 billion times,
And I can only respond,
No, it was more like 30 or 60 something
But who knows, and I don’t care
Because for criminy sake,
She is J.K. Rowling, and I am simply
The unpoet who was rejected again, today,
Who feels vulgar saying Christ as a curse word,
Yet overuses the word Fuck!
Now, remind me, what was I saying about that clock?