Poetry Clock

I always outrace time with my overflowing emotion
A bucketful of both despair and joy
One heave of breath and I pour them all into the drain
Which I have no idea where it will drift them to
Maybe into slow dancing tide of the ocean
Maybe into rushing rain of waterfall and then to its hard-bottom riverbed
I just wish I have never had to see them again

I always win myself over the tick of clock
Blank screen is my playground and solitude at the same time
There is no way to imagine that I would be running out of words
Nor words are never running out of remedy
It consumes the ill
It is a religion I turn into whenever impaired
A self-art turns biblical
It consumes all hate

Then I measure my strength
So let time to win over my poetry

One heavy day, I choose to devour without trying to comfort myself
Muting the most silent voice
Words runs timid

So I held middle and index fingers together
and open the gap next to my thumb
Place them onto the side of my temple
I said, "I wanted a shotgun to my head
With a bullet that shatters my brain
I want to drain
Be dead and live again."

I almost fell down to pieces
How I cannot find even any one else's lovesongs that can relate to
Like how I cannot bring this poem to a close
And feel as a whole again
Without sounding ugly