my wrists twist ninety degrees,
effortlessly on a natural bearing
I’m usually positioned on a miniature chair,
from the corner of the room staring,
there’s a world beyond the window,
it’s something I’ll never know
I’m calling for you to let me go,
no longer am I the fad or favourite
of what parents see wise,
I’ll have you know I was in fashion
long before you were alive,
coming a close second to the ‘chattering teeth',
my tin exterior hides
a fragile heart beneath,
ticking, beating and repeating
each time you wind me up
my mechanics are far to intricate
to be produced in a mindless factory,
I thought my days were numbered
come the alkaline battery,
I have no hardware or USB,
no A.I. intelligence, you can’t delete me,
over time, it appears I’ve been relegated,
I suppose some might accuse
this broken toy jaded,
I bare the odd bruise,
my colour might be faded,
but I still see myself as a toy for all ages,
despite my rusty springs
I house no dial or gauges,
I require no manual with
a thousand pointless pages
you can confide in me and I’ll listen,
I’ll help you to handle your own decisions,
until that fateful day
when you condemn me gone,
I guess nothing ‘old’ in this new age
ever lasts that long,
and with this comes the journey,
the part I hate the most,
I’m tossed away like junk,
thrown from pillar to post,
it’s as if I can hear my tin heart crumble
as you sentence me to the ‘death row’ jumble,
I am a clockwork toy, a broken boy,
a resemblance of youth
that adolescence forgot,
forever resigned to the bargain bin
in your local charity shop,
tick toc, tic toc, tic toc
No comments:
Post a Comment