it was a clutter of emotions;
he could not believe
the trash he found
buried within
it was a passion, he claimed;
he could not comprehend
when his love had been
corrupted, wrinkled up:
dead.
his fingers are factories
not needle and thread, no
intricate details, merely a mass
of plastic things
he dubs them "affection"
he dubs them "grandiose"
he dubs them "products of his heart"
he dubs them "masterpieces"
yet, he grits his teeth every time
he welcomes people to his dreams
yet they are machinery, made
to entertain, not touch
your hearts
when was love
about profit anyway?
numbers numbed his perception
a mere shell of
yesterday's potential
he shuts down his mind;
a product of his own undoing
....
YOU ARE READING
It (#Wattys2016)
Poetry| 1st Place for Summer Sun Awards (Beginner's Firsts) | | 2nd Place for the Pinpoint Awards | | Finalist for the 2016 Awards | It matters not what people think regarding things you believe strongly in. Perhaps, it may even help to even spread...
