“Not one of the clocks I own appear to work.”

  It’s an assumption, written, that I claim.

  Their cogs and wheels fail, each by obscure quirk

  I’d think it unfair to shoulder the blame.

  Their hands are each present, and yet none move;

  Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

  Decorations on boards with no function.

  Assignments labored, but what can I do

  When professors deny the malfunction.

  I’ve panicked. Slaved. Done writing for hours.

  (I started after the draft became due.)

  Written a sonnet, it’s about flowers,

  And every claim since spoken is true.

  But now it’s too late. I’ve failed to submit.

  And now none will read this poem I've writ.