Tick tock goes the clock, slowly my panic grows.
The closer to three the tiny hands be
The less pleasant my poem appears to me.
At this time, I really need be
Writing numbers instead of poetry.
I hope my professor does not call on me.
Oh the irony on the screen,
Word problems are not fun you see.
My mind is wandering aimlessly.
My care is not if these words fit, together in this sonnet.
Ten forty-five is the time, now as I write ridiculous rhymes.
As I approach the last line, a thought appears within my mind.
I write in the present as well as the past.
But words of the future are out of my grasp.