Old Batteries

The clock hands ticking slowly,
Holding rhythm, keeping time,
Consume all my attention,
Zoned out echoes in my mind.
Every second passing,
Like an hour down the drain.
I won't acknowledge my progression,
Won't validate my pain.
My mind, like a genie- a jester,
Illusionist playing tricks
Tells me the critters inside me
Are as real as the clock-hands' ticks.
I'm too smart for the paranoia.
I count each tock to clear my head.
Still, the whispers behind my eyes
Almost convince me I'm better off dead.
The face of my clock is cracked,
Much like my metaphorical heart.
I'm losing my mind right next to you,
We've been silent from the very start.
From the ticks, the tocks grow further-
One second now actually two, two as long as three-
Time stops, I'm stuck standing still,
But the world keeps tock-ticking without me.