Was I nothing more than a machine ?
A clockwork that wasn't keyed ?
Made from shards and scraps,
With clogs and clams as a body.
Thrown away,
Not to be used again.
Too erroneous,
Too broken to function correctly.
I couldn't fathom that
Tremendous amount of pain,
Into words properly.
It was too taut,
The thread tethering me to reality,
Ready to snap.
It was too thin,
The line separating me from insanity,
I would topple over to the edge at any moment.
I was nothing more than a broken machine.
YOU ARE READING
Way Ward
PoetryLife is a jumbled mess. And from within this mess, I'm gifting you "your" stories, along with the stories of some other lost souls. Way Ward - A way to find your lost self.
