Tick.
You tyrant.

Perched on my desk like
a minimalist dictator,
you subdivide my ambition
into equal, merciless beats.

Allegro? You scoff.
Adagio? You refuse sympathy.
You do not care
that feeling prefers rubato.

Tick.

You expose every rushed entrance,
every ego-driven accelerando,
every lie I tell myself
about “natural groove.”

Conductors may gesture,
drummers may swing,
but you—
you are incorruptible time.

Tick.

In rehearsal, I resent you.
In performance, I abandon you.
Yet somehow
my freedom depends on your grid.

Because without you
my crescendos wander,
my fermatas sulk too long,
my art dissolves into self-indulgence.

Tick.

So here’s to you,
small plastic philosopher—
teaching me that discipline
is just rhythm
taken seriously.

Anonymous Author