Cog Without A Machine To Call Home

Cog Without A Machine To Call Home short poem

Photo by RowdyKittens

This filth feels like home
And I just left my friend
I want to stay calm but
The drugs kick in again

That feeling hits the bone
And I am at the end
I cannot reap what I’ve sown
I can’t fix it with a Hem

I am so alone
My pride slowly bends
I will always be unknown
Until it’s time to cleanse

I am no one, nothing more than what I am
The machine calls my name but I have nowhere to fit in
The pistons pump, the metal screams
and I can’t fix it, I don’t have the means

I was born a loser, the self abuser
The one with no room to talk
But I knew I was saving for the day I could come through
And this is just a prelude to what we will do

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