A face adorned rife with rosy cheeks,
Two glass eyes deep as oceans...but only green...
Placed just right with the hand of the maker.
Motors spin behind my eyelids, gears
Force my arms to serve his wish,
And my feet know all too well the screws
Driven through and well into the oaken floor.
Each day the curtain closes to end,
And opens to start my play to please
The audience in the tiny theatre.
Only that I might live do I have any choice!
I have no say. Oh what a life.
Real blood used to flow through my veins.
I could touch with my fingers, could hear
With my ears, could love with my heart.
And love I did the man who brings my parts,
The one who "fixes" me, the one
Who replaces my parts when they break.
But that's the thing. How many parts of a person
Can you replace before you have an animatronic?
His face twists when I break,
whatever the part may be.
And I did flinch when I was capable.
But now that I am put on show,
Before his audience, I'm starting to realize
I'm not so alive as I formerly was.
YOU ARE READING
Not From Chicago.
PoetryThis is a collection of my best poetry in my opinion! I hope you enjoy, whoever may paint their eyes over the letters and words I've arranged! PS-This book includes poems from "A World In Words" by yours truly. Go check out the other book, if you li...
