Poem

Another day, marching along in time
Like a machine, I have no choice in what my next move will be.
Repetition, repetition, repetition.
My parts are rusted, my hinges squeak
No more can I repeat, repeat.
Pieces that once shined, now black, and unrecognizable,
With bolts and screws turning loose.
Soon I'll be nothing more than useless scraps,
That will be forgotten and tossed about.


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