Steampunk Soul

I’m supposed to be a machine

Running fast and staying clean

I’m not supposed to quit, or to break

I only stop when I am replaced.

So what happened to me?

Why am I not going smoothly?
I’m forced to peel back my rusted skin

And diagnose what’s within

All the gears still turn, hydraulics clean

But something there blocks the gleam

It covers everything inside

And when I knew what it was I would have cried

It wasn’t oil, nor was it blood

It was no sauce, nor was it mud

It was the death of machines, to sanity itself

Renders you useless, for the back shelf

It was love, the unreachable kind

It tore me up until I could only find

Scraps of metal and bits of wire

My circuts fried and then caught fire

And I fell and looked at the sky

And while I burned I finally cried. 

Author's Notes/Comments: 

Kind of how I feel about a girl....

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a.griffiths57's picture

    Smitten by love and



Smitten by love and passion for a girl, this poem certainly describes your burning desire well. An enjoyable read and well written, like your creation.

RockofShades's picture

My Thanks

Thank you