Broken Machine

I sit just like a broken machine, my insides whirring, and my joints cracking. An existential dread weighs me down, as my parts never seem to rest. The tick tacking of the clock inches louder, and my program succumbs to the pressure. Silence has become a misery, for then it's when my components fail me. In my time of need and most exposed, I feel like a window shopper at the automotive store. I don't want to fail, but I don't know how to win either. For a machine, I'm pretty afraid, embarrassed, and sad. For a human, I'm just another broken cog in the lot.