regularity doesn’t seem

regularity doesn’t seem to be my thing
my poetic self operates on a different reality
a clock lacking a face or hands
no hours nor day to speak of 
no ticks and tocks to track its rhythm 
sometimes I wonder if she ever grew up
being the moody adolescent as she is
so undisciplined and ungrateful as she is–
but, what do I know of parenting?  

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