My Brain

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It’s a well-oiled machine
Cogs spinning in time to their own beat
The grease has a bad smell
I can almost taste it as I breathe in
I can see the oil
Running to each part
Trying to keep it slick
And easy to maneuver
The oil keeps those parts
Turning easily
You can’t hear the grind and pull
Or screech from non-slicked parts
You can’t touch the machine
For fear of getting hurt
You can taste the dark brown oil
Thick as it falls down
It’s a machine
Built in America
But made from all over.





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