The infernal machines loudly portray their thoughts
When all culminates they taunt me.

Hysterically laughing at my blunders
No machine can make a mistake
Banging at the doors of the psychological house
Of my nature; my brain

The infernal machines, steam spewing; combustion fumes fill the air
Choking only me to my breaking point
The unforgiving hardness of the machines
Touches my skin with severity.

The infernal machines broken…
With no more fumes or steam lay torn;
For machines cannot feel the security of warm blooded touch
Beating; bludgeoning
I weep at the hardiness of their steel in that cold basement in which I dwell.
I smash them with my emotion (now I taunt them)
Watching the deprecation of the beasts’ rusty metal.

But…
With a sputter,
The infernal machines awake,
Building their factory over my rose lilacs
Where you and I once laid.

Those machines of my psyche
No longer allow the good in me
To be released out of this bubble of depression
That consumes me when I am secluded.

But humming below my feet,
Droning on, they heat the floor.
My path always leads back to the machines.
Believing the lies, they whisper to me.
Beckoning my ******* self to the bottom,
of that basement where the floor is no longer,
a grate, but a slab of concrete.

As I approach the stair, a figure stops me,
“Head my warning. What you seek, or feel you should be seeking isn’t there.”
I repressed this.

As I walk, the sound of the machines slowly haunts its way to my ear.
I strain to hear and when I arrive the machines are off.

I sprint through the basement, but it seems they have abandoned me.
In a mad dash, I frantically search for a working machine.

But to my demise have forgotten,
That machines cannot give nor receive warm blooded love,
And for this reason I sit waiting for the next sputter of the evil machines,
For it is all I know.