Rusted bolts don't lie.
They either break free,
or snap entirely.

Ratchets and wrenches don't cry,
they only serve their purpose
or in the process they die.

I understand these
fundamentalities.

It's the vast
mystique of emotion
that I cannot grasp.

All is nails.
I'm always getting hammered.
The holy grail
is a heart that doesn't matter.

I can fix a mast
in the midst of an ocean,
it offers no sass.

Yet a sentimental forest of trees
feels entirely foreign to me.