Broken pencil poetry. Broken?

Broken?
18th of July 2022


Its back is bent,
Its shoulders are hunched
And its head is bowed down -
Is it tired, defeated,
... Broken?
Sitting at the table,
It is maybe a little bit of all.
But more than that,
It is hunched over in concentration,
Its fingers careful and deft,
Working without hesitation.

The last rays of the setting sun
Glimmer off its metallic skin,
Shine into its optic sensor eyes
And warm its cold brow.
Yet it sees and feels none of it,
Applying itself to its task,
Tinkering away
At the small device in its hands.

If you saw it, perhaps you'd understand.
The robot with the metal flesh
And artificial brain
Is sitting hunched over the workbench,
An empty cavity gaping in its chest -
It's working tirelessly
At fixing its own heart.

Broken pencil poetry. Agoraphobia

Agoraphobia
5.5.22

Like from dry ice
Your soul suffuses from your body
And leaves its carcass behind.
Where to?
Now that you're free,
What will you do?
Kick that ankle chain away,
Don't even think
To put it back on!

Try as you might,
Your sky is still blue,
Your eyes are still hollow
And your mouth is still shut.

Those giant arms holding your body
Have released you.
Swim, little puppy!
Else you will drown
In this empty endless blue sky.