Sometimes
I feel like no more than a machine;
an automaton built from scrap metal,
and left by its maker to roam the earth,
forever searching for its beating heart.
Most of the times
I’m not even human, at least, not in my mind…
and the day draws on with no consequence,
with no meaning or might.
I’ve been compared to shells before,
spit out by the sea and abandoned by all other creatures-
but at least shells are collected,
at least they’re adored.
I always
feel like an impostor in some poor person’s skin,
a thief who stole away their life, pulled apart their
ambitions and said, “No, you can’t have those.”
Perhaps I am a machine,
dropped in this world to ruin lives,
because that’s all I ever seem to do.
Stellular Scribe 