My heart skips

When I think of years gone by,

What’s to come.

Youth fading,

Like a puddle in the sun.

Evaporating in the air,

To be forgotten.

The fan of time spins round and fast.

Threatening and sharp,

It brings up emotions past.

 

An artist, maybe; perhaps I am wrong,

Just a cog in the machine.

 

I don’t want this machine,

All shiny and fake

A talking head – a smiling façade

No different, no worse

Still no empathy.

 

I don’t like the other machine either,

All grey and tall.

The fat cat gets the milk,

Clock in, clock out , tick tock tick,

In you go,

Out you come,

Wrinkled, old and bitter.

 

There’s something that should be in the middle.

I don’t know it’s name,

Others say they do.

I am not the same.

It makes the other things tolerable,

or so they say.

 

And so my belly rumbles,

For the feel of a different quake,

The glue to hold this life together

When it all begins to shake.

No more machines,

Just waves and flowers.

Uncertainty restrains, beyond the machines allowance.

 

 

Author: Shaunna Lee Lynch

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About: Shaunna is an Irish writer, performer, dreamer, hip hop enthusiast, general enthusiast living in Hong Kong.