I Was a Broken Clock

I have never been great at keeping friends. Sometimes I wonder if many people are. Or whether we are just friends with people because of close proximity. For example, they go to school with us, they live near us or they go to work with us. Therefore, we can rely on them to be there for us. At least that's what I've experienced as a female and seen other females' experience. I know I shouldn't generalise but I do see more men traveling in packs more than women. My boyfriend and my dad are both still very close with the friends they had in primary school. Whereas, I have one friend from primary school who I don't see very often at all.

This poem is about how I felt up until last year about high school. For 3 years I suffered from loneliness at school during class time despite being surrounded by 30 other people. After the 3 years, I moved to sixth-form where I eventually ended up lonely again. It took me 3-4 years after school to realise that no one is perfect and you can't get on with everyone because everyone has so many different opinions. Then it was so easy to let go of what had happened. I'm not going into it because the past is where it's supposed to be. Also, I found my people in the end. Right in the middle of uni I joined a yoga society and I rebuilt my confidence with my new found friends who I still keep in contact with over facebook. I do worry we'll lose touch but I doubt that will happen with the internet and all. Also, I think we've planned that every birthday we have we are going to see something in the west end together. Jess' birthday was in May, Tamila's and Holly's birthday is in August and mines in November. So we're all quite spread out.

Anyway, I hope you enjoy this poem. I have other strategies such as mindful meditation and yoga. Send this to anyone that is having trouble letting go of the past.

I am a broken clock.

I cannot tick tock.

Stuck in a moment of time.

It’s like I’m trying to get out of slime.

I try to leap forward and move on but the second-hand keeps pulling back.

I wish I could stop thinking of the past but I just don’t have the knack.

The second hand was strong memories of that time I don't want to remember anymore.

It was such a bore.

But the second-hand keeps reminding me, again and again, that, that time, is what makes me, me now.

That without that moment in time I wouldn't be as empathetic somehow.

I wouldn't be so independent so compassionate;

I might not even be a graduate.

I wouldn't have found out the other clock's true colours or saw their second face.

That I wouldn’t have gotten to this place

but at the same time, I wouldn't be as broken,

if I hadn’t spoken.

I wouldn't be so awkward, so bad at socialising,

I wouldn't find my alone time so stabilising.

Before, letting go is only right twice a day.

I wanted these thoughts to just go away.

However, I'm getting better, the more I tick the more momentum the second hand obtains.

The more time that passes the weaker the second-hand strains

Time is slowly healing me.

I wrote letters that I didn't send that was the key

This is the time I can carry on.

Thanks to the journaling and counseling phenomenon