The Machine Ate My Soul

I used to have a soul.

~

I felt it,

in the breath of the wind;

when the sun’s golden dew

hit the grass

and the leaves of trees,

and my pen touched paper.

~

Somewhere

in my feeble,

arrogant childhood,

I thought I meant something.

that I could make something

of myself.

But somewhere along the way

I lost my soul.

~

I think it was

the numbers.

I thought my creativity

would pencil.

That one could capitalize

on talent.

I was oft told

it was hard.

I wasn’t told

it was impossible.

Nevertheless,

I tried to make the numbers work,

endlessly,

fruitlessly,

again and again,

fighting the brick wall,

and I think it fried my brain.

~

It doesn’t help

that every year that turns over

the numbers skew even farther

toward unimaginative income.

Drones are rewarded—

kind of—

and skill is a hobby.

Because The Arts are not

essential.

Let’s have a machine draw this picture

or write this book

instead.

The only cost is

every living thing on this planet.

~

When people see Children,

they see Potential.

What no one tells you

when you’re a Child

is that potential

is only for

Children.

They don’t have to factor

cost of living

into “what they want to be

when they grow up.”

~

Does that make sense?

I don’t think it does.

I told you:

I used to have a soul,

but I fried my brain

trying to work my passion

into the machine,

and lost it.