My brain is a manic machine
powered by a chemical personality
powered by a cycle of procrastination
by lost keys
and the bickering of worried parents
But what do you do with a machine that is wired completely differently?
My machine wasn’t made to make difficult things
like a straight A student
or outstanding things
like a star athlete
My machine was built to make jokes
To make art
To make people happy
Small things that are deemed useless
unless they are paired with big things
Like drive
Or passion
And in the third grade, people started to get frustrated with my machine
Kicking at its gears
Taking it apart, and scrapping it back together with duct tape
And when my machine was tampered with enough
It did what all machines do
It spiraled out of control
It became a monster spewing out worry
And worst case scenarios
Toxic distractions and misguided good intentions
But deep within the metal works of my machine
there is an unwavering humming noise
the turning of gears that keeps me hopeful for something miraculous
seeping out just enough unexplainable self-love
To keep me in fear of a
breakdown