Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Their gears twist and turn, cranking tirelessly
Round the mortal coils of a mellower
Art and content of games played wirelessly.
The game boards are awash with bellowers,
Slighted pawns too bound by echo tubing
Passed around to fortunetellers frightened
By town criers trying to throw heartstrings
Of lovers obsessed with burdens lightened.
"She is trapped and he the trapper," they say.
Shall he free her and see her twist and break?
Maybe that is her choice," but not today,
Or tomorrow or the next," he risks fate.
      Their goal is obvious: parting those two.
      Too bad their love is a folie à deux.
Folie à Deux means madness for two. it's a case in which two people share the same delusion. Like lover's having the same fantasy.
vera Oct 2019
For the last four months, the gears usually churning in my head have halted to an eerie stop. I can't recall anything passed and I can't think of anything new. Dust accumulated on gears big and small making them appear certainly abandoned. It was joined by cobwebs and the spiders who willed them into existence. If I concentrate hard enough I'm sure I will feel them crawling around looking for any sign of life or sustenance. Perhaps these poor creatures are out of luck. I think next, the rust will start to form, and then I will really be in trouble. It will corrode every last piece of metal and take no regard for the way it destroys me. Slowly, the gears will turn orange, and then brown, and then they will cease to exist at all. And that is when I will truly be a lost cause. I guess in a way I'm only getting what I’ve always wanted: for the gears to take a break, to stop churning so mercilessly all the time, to stop working countless possibilities over and over and over again. The most futile effort I’ve ever known. When the gears fall, I think I will be normal. Finally, in correspondence with the people I see around me, I will be just the same. Feigning happiness will not be required, because maybe I will just feel it.
Pyrrha Dec 2018
I love to dance, I love this routine
But her eyes bore into me and I felt like a machine
My parts and gears were aching, turned into the color of rust
I felt ready to combust
I love to dance, I love this routine
But she's made me in to something that isn't quite me
Suddenly I can't recall the once familiar choreography

Her wicked smile bends me and I crumble under the pressure
Mystic Ink Plus Feb 2018
Warm up
Listening to intuition
Hands full
Cast as a wallpaper
Time traveler
Witnessed the disgrace
Can’t explain more
Stereotype, eccentric?
Towards a familiar face
Being a neophyte
With a marijuana life
Switching gears into auto pilot
Floated with no gravity
Clarity, that makes no sense
Unseen, unheard but close to heart

A selection bias
Let the Adrenaline rush
Dream or nightmare?
Claws sharper than Scalpel
Waiting for a response
“Yes” is the answer
Proof of life
Night with an open eyes.
God’s mistake
All come with an expiration date.
Shared from my Anthology, Canvas: Echoes and Reflections, 2018.
Useless Stardust Nov 2017
running, running, running gears,
quickly, smoothly,
running, running, running gears,
all towards the same goal,
running, running, running,
pop,
one jumps out, the gears continue,
running, running, running gears,
it lays there, useless,
running, running.. running...
it joins the pile as the gears continue
running... running.....
Scrap Metal Sep 2017
At a time where it seems so very hard, for me just to feel alive.
all I wanted then, was to drive
As ridiculous as it seems
it was the stuff of my dreams
all I needed was my car and vacant 4am roads.

Going through the gears, as if they were my final years
piston tatted-ring finger; hand firmly wrapped around the wheel
braking late into the corner
locking up the alloy steel wheels on my automobile  
the tires squeal
waltzing them back into rotation as I find the threshold
clutch in
twist of the leg at the hip, I blip the throttle with my heel
down into second
one swift movement
un-burnt fuel erupts in the pipes.
blitzing through the off ramp
keeping it tight, clipping the manhole cover in the apex
pedal flat coming out, bounce the tach' as its not worth the upshift
pitch the car into the long sweeping overpass bend
the back end kicks out on decel'
counter steer and slam the accelerator back into the bare metal floor
front wheels clawing in the direction that I please
keys slapping my knees
straighten out and I ease her back home.

reverse down into the narrow; dimly lit garage
as I climb out, I can feel the heat radiating from the machine I built
hot oil ticking as it finds its way back to the pan
I stand and watch my car slowly disappear behind the garage door
it is but another night survived
for both of us.
imagine your single most favorite thing to do is extremely dangerous, illegal and selfish.
Isaac Godfrey May 2017
Steam, Heat, sweltering mechanisms at work,
cogs, collected, combined, creating copper cirque,
wheels rotating, furnaces incinerating, gears moving at busy speed,
circulating, building, crafting, machines making what we need,
Tubes pump Scarlet Liquid, contraptions clank and ratchets clink,
as I ponder - what all the parts do, one requires to think.
Parts seldom give up, nor contraptions shirking,
but this wonder, marvel, machine, is the human body working.
A poem I wrote with not much though until I contemplated just how many mechanisms we conceal - just within ourselves! Then I really got thinking, Constantly, without end, our furnaces, our kilns, our production lines, never stop building what we need, there's a whole foundry within us, a factory, contained within.
TIME has so much power and say on our day to day.
It tells us if we are early or late.
If we should be hired or fired.
Determines if we're morally correct or socially incorrect.
Our definition of TIME is far from perfect.
TIME is a song that has your radio station infected.
Can't change the station, can't escape it.
"Ugh! I hate this song!!!" singing along

We are the dysfunctional orchestra,
the composers of this catchy tune.
Composed by the abused watches we wear,
the guilty murderer clocks we hang on our walls
and by our notorious digital clocks in our phones.

Our favorite dance partner is 'Father Time'.
Dancing to the ticking and tocking.
Grooving at the speed of gears turning.
Steady rhythm; never speeding or slowing.


TIME does not exist, TIME keeping does. Oh silly humans......
measuring something that does NOT exist.
Stuart Hayashi Jun 2016
white noise is like everything happening at once
too much for the speakers to capture fully
after all an audio device tuned into nothing is tuned into everything
The layers of machine gears grinding
screams of bliss and agony
all turned into static while plugged into nothing
plugged into nothing
plugged into gods glory
Next page