I've always had an interest in clockwork.
Little gears set in specific place
Winding and whirling each other along
A physically programmed path.
And I don't get it.
At some point it becomes too complex to just talk about
Just a mix-mash of machinery that just works as intended.
I feel like I want to relate to it.
The way this gear relates to that spring
Or this cog turns that wheel
It all moves for a reason.
I want that.
I want to understand why I get out of bed in the morning
Though I never want to.
Why do I keep going,
Where is the gear that winds me awake every day,
To perform these simple tasks.
Why do I feel cold steel feelings
Like I am meant only to complete each
Function of the day
Step by step by step by step by step
Until I go to bed and wait for the next
Its numb.
Like fingers caught in gears
And tear drop oil working its way through
The creaky interior
I want to break myself open
And trace my way back through the process.
Find which wheel makes me move,
Which cog makes me feel,
What spring is not working.
But it all gets too complex to just talk about
So I’m fine.
Fine with watching rust creep its way into the controls
With feeling each creak getting louder
And my movement becoming a symphony of agony.
The spring in my step popping out of place
And wheels rolling away
I’m tired
Of finding each little mistake in me.
Each out of place piece
And every worn out metal bit.
I'm tired of working my clockwork heart.
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