The Clock Strikes Within

I can’t tell if this room’s spinning or my mind’s cracked,

Clock’s laughing loud, ticks slower than a heart attack.

The clock strikes midnight one too many times,

Then half past three—yeah, that’s my nightmare’s chimes.

Trailer life, drug haze, no bedtime stories,

Past echoes of violence in all their forms and glories.

Not in that trailer now, but raised in its smoke and lies,

Most of my childhood lost where the darkness never dies.

I pace, I write, my brain’s a cage of mice,

Trapped in overthinking, a toxic kind of ice.

Hallucinations? Yeah, shadows talk back,

Whisper my failures, remind me of every fucking crack.

Am I losing it? Or just learning to survive?

Feels like I’m living tomorrow trapped in yesterday alive.

A year ago, I was someone else, not this ghost in my skin,

I’m peeling layers off just to find where to begin.

Smile’s on lock, laugh’s canned and rehearsed,

I’m the calm before chaos, but it’s getting fucking worse.

Talking to myself, but don’t recognize who the fuck’s there,

A sarcastic bitch with eyes full of despair.

“Hey, you good?” they ask, like I’m fine or I’m sane—

Yeah, sure, I’m peachy while riding this braintrain.

I flinch at silence like it’s loaded with lies,

Watching the walls crawl and dance in disguise.

Stepdad’s footsteps? More like a bullet to my chest,

Mom’s wine glass is half-full of apathy’s best.

I’m writing in shadows where no one can hear,

Spilling secrets on pages, my sanity’s veneer.

I question my mind, am I fractured or cursed?

Schizophrenia? Maybe. Or just trauma rehearsed.

Either way, I’m the same kid they forgot to save,

Now I’m just a shadow in my own mental grave.

I see double—two faces staring back at me,

One’s laughing, one’s crying, neither sets me free.

Voices in halls, or just echoes in my head?

I ask questions that keep me up in my bed:

“Who the hell am I? Am I losing my grip?

Is this all in my mind or a sinking ship?”

Time’s slipping, flipping—minutes melt into hours,

Like I’m drowning slow under invisible powers.

I’m calm but shaking, steady but lost,

Playing poker with ghosts, but I’m paying the cost.

I joke with my demons, sarcastic and cold,

Telling them, “Keep it coming, I’ve already been sold.”

This isn’t a cry, it’s a cold, quiet fight—

Writing in secret just to hold on tight.

So if I disappear, or just fade away thin,

Know it all started when the clock struck within—