The Machine

It’s like you said, you got the broken version,
Missing a cog in the machine,
Something that once flowed fluidly,
Now stutters and coughs, spluttering in a fight to feel,
A fight to care, a fight to be decisive for better or worse,
You say you’ll try and fix me,
But you don’t have what I need.

My friends do.

It’s the opposite of what you said, there’s no more to me,
There was once, but not anymore,
Everything is seen through indifferent eyes,
Faces are blurs, bringing no joy or sadness upon sight,
Yours is the haziest, as I really don’t care,
Nothing inside stirs for you, or worse, for anything,
It’s like freedom with rules.

It isn’t right.

It’s out of character for me, but in character with what you know,
I have changed, along with everything,
Yet I can’t help but wonder what would be if we had met one year earlier,
When the machine ran smoothly, when the missing piece clicked perfectly,
When a check up every now and then did the trick and kept me ticking,
Now I need a break from it all to get myself right,
Every person thinks they can fix me.

They really can’t.