Tethered you are to the clock, that won’t stop,

Dragging you into your grave,

Slaves to whether we ever feel better,

Or well enough at least to go,

Where go did the days, of which you could stave,

The feelings, the pain, sorrow,

Thoughts are the roots, that grip on the boots,

And pull you down like gravity to the globe.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

It all seems pointless.