Mechanical Heart
an original poem by Jason White
Mechanical eyes
Mechanical thoughts
For this mechanical heart
Forsaken spirit
Forsaken trust
For my forsaken life
I have been given the signs
I have been shown the path
Yet I close my eyes
And stray so far
The machination of my being
Has forsaken me to who I am
I am a forgery of the man
I was intended to be
I cannot be more transparent
Though it hurts
For I do not want all to see
What I have within me
Only darkness consumes me
Darkness,
And the mechanics that move me
The darkness causes them to forsake me
I want to hide away
But I must put on my face
And attempt to pretend
Reality does not exist
Mechanical parts
Made to move a forsaken man
I continue to search far and wide
For a real heart
So, I can become the man
I was intended to be
About the Creator
Jason White
Jason White is a father, a grandfather, knowledge seeker and sharer. Jason is the owner of Growth Positive Consulting where he puts his fundraising and management skills to great use. He is a writer, a woodworker, and a philanthropist.
Keep reading
More stories from Jason White and writers in Poets and other communities.
My Foundation for Everything
I went back home. To where, as a child, I'd play. So many memories. So many heartbreaks. So much love from my family. These walls still bare the stories. But as I sit in her chair. I am taken through the toughest memory of all. I hear her voice. "Everything is going to be good my dear." Time reverses. Everything is as it was. She is there. Her smile so beautiful. The softness of her voice. I get lost in it again. She tells me a story, as she did so long ago. As I regain reality. I feel her presence. Smell her perfume. I know she's with me forever. I love you Grandma. You are my first love. My foundation for everything.
By Jason White3 years ago in Poets
Reaching Out
I promise her. I'd do anything for her. She's my mom. Even as Lanie and Deanna are flying home, Mom is scrappy fighting dying. She lays too still in that too-big bed with all the toasty white hospital blankets, in the south tower, at the broad end of a long slow-turning corner that delivers me again to her private room with the view she can't see through, with the beeping that tells us nothing new, and all these ice chips she can't swallow, and a flood of well-intentioned nurses who cannot do a damned thing all the same.
By Christy Munson3 days ago in Fiction
Comments
There are no comments for this story
Be the first to respond and start the conversation.