Sunday, April 8, 2012

the machine

a machine that has seen wear and tear,
far beyond the recommended share;
though you worked only once or twice,
and none of which was very nice,
you gained some sense on the rusty head
promising, never again, will it be read.

always have you told the truth,
hoping to remain in blinded youth,
but all you are is a sheet of tin,
and, for all that matters, quite thin.
wasteful efforts making you supreme
when you're so fragile, it would seem.

all of them joined you in mirth,
casting an illusion of their worth,
when they mistook you for a toy;
but every laugh was a decoy,
distraction from internal pain,
which grew larger and insane.

save the tears, they serve no good,
the hungry wouldn't have them for food;
nor the homeless in need of heat
would dare touch your putrid meat.
you've become hoary and forgot,
cease to think and begin to rot.