Machine

I am a machine, toiling, a cog,

a gear turning.

They own me.

And I cower under their thumb.

Really, I am worth nothing.

A body to replace a body,

hands to replace hands.

My passion is

a splash of colour, lost

in the darkness.

But, I am defective.

They force feed us hours

with the enticing promise of pay,

The rest eat willingly.

No word of opposition.

But my battery is dead

long before the rest.

What can I say?

I am defective.

And they resent

the product they have purchased.

Irreparable, slow,

obstinate.

Passion is irrelevant.

Quality of work, trivial.

Fervor, insignificant. 

A machine was bought to work.

Quick and immaculate,

mindless, efficient, anesthetized.

Flawless.

I am a machine toiling, a cog,

a gear turning.

But, I am defective.

Author's Note

I do not own the rights to the photo which accompanies this poem.