My Unstable Poetry

to the people i miss

My eyes see you as the car races with the air
Going through a puddle along the way
Oh wait, never mind
It was a mailbox
It was white like you, not that I care
After all humans are supposed to be input and output machines just like computers
After all, that's what Im doing right now, aren't I?
Yes I give you my input and then your output can be anything, even if I don't hear
Isn't it oh so humorous when the machines we are say something we don't want heard, so we pack up the machine
If your like the people I miss, there machine was fragile lungs with pale skin
Tubes so they could make it
It streamed the air I pass by now
To them
Because to them, I wasn't a machine
The machine of me was actually talking
After all my machine was just a battery
Powering me all I needed to get through the day
So;
To the people I miss
I hope your machines revisit me someday, so
I can't miss you anymore.
Missing is too hard on a weak, pale little being like me
So please, to the people I miss, can I have your machine?