Empty Clock

People all around feel the wheels turning inside them,
People all around can feel the hands move.
The sense of freedom…
The sense of purpose…
Some smaller than others,
A few stand big and tall.
But I stand motionless,
Not placed on a wall.
My mechanism is not working,
My insides are still.
Nothing stirs inside of me,
The world to mark me ill.
There is ticking among me
Tocks that echo through the air.
My space feels like a void,
Where nor you or I seem to care.
Tick, tick tick, of your voices,
murmur around the streets.
Tick, tick, tick, of your choices,
While I sit in discrete.
My hands stationed,
My body frame aching to move.
Wanting nothing more to be normal,
With nothing to prove.
Nothing to really tick for,
Not even a petty little tock.
All hollow inside,
I am just an empty clock…