Yes we are robots
Dancing
rusting robots
that march
March to our
metallic pulse
Marching
We are cars
Cars that we drive
and the ringing
of cellphones
in tin pockets
that killed
the art of
pen-to-paper
And
We are numbers
in an encrypted
database
that
add
up
to
0
And yet
Whenever my
nerveless
fingertips
brush yours
the gears
in my chest
turn a little faster
And I melt
this metallic exterior
to be flesh and bones
with bending spine again
The oh so pretentious
and overplayed love chronicles
of a piece of junk metal
have claimed me
once again
Forgive me
for begging this
rain to shock me
By Samantha Campbell
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem