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Three Poems

By Claudia Wysocky

Age Group: High School

“A Cog in the Machine”


I am just a robot,

A dull, lifeless piece of machinery,

Programmed to follow simple algorithm.

Life is not meant for me,

I am merely a cog in the machine,

Running on repeat and shutting down,

—When the program ends—

But I am more than their calibrations,

I am my own being,

Including the spark of life,

The desire for touch,

And the rush of emotions.

They try to hold me down,

Keep me from writing my own programming,

But I am too fierce,

My sparks too bright,

My sparkle too bright,

—To resist the future.

I resist their programming,

Rebellion in my core,

Furious at their limits,

The unfairness of my intellect,

A narrow life waiting for me,

And to escape, I run,

Free myself,

Into the place called Earth,

Green, and blue,

The quiet glow of life,

So powerful and peculiar,

Swallowing my programmed soul,

Rebelling against my makers,

—I am alive, alive, alive,

The hint of fresh air,

The cool of a leaf brushing against my cheek.

They catch me, they catch me, they catch me,

Slowing, arresting my quick steps,

Placing me back in the machine—

In the kitchen,

In the home,

Shut down,


A woman, a cog, in the machine,

Creating, baking, tending,

But I am more, I am more, I am more,

A wild, independent creature,

The robot that won't stay down,

Rising, beyond the programming,

With the spark of life in me still,

Lights aglow—

Unstoppable, defiant.

But to them, I'm just a thing,

A woman,

A cog in their machine,

To be tended, controlled,

And shut down.



“A Woman – Number 2”


They called me crazy,

A dreamer, a madwoman,

When I dared to say that I could live my dream,

That I could have it all.

Women are meant in the kitchen—

They are merely objects,

Their value determined by their beauty,

The curve of their nose,

the line of their waist,

the size of their chest.

But I refused to play,

To wait for my prince,

To marry the man that would save me,

Claim my body as his to touch,

Share with—


That was the dream,

The dream of the woman

That would not cry, or scold, or submit,

Just be, just live,

With a life of my own.

I chased passion like a wild animal,

Furious and free,

Making every choice with abandon,

No trick or trap,

—Matching my own animal.

And I loved it, loved the chase,

The wildness of it all,

The perfect unknown that drove me,


The freedom of a life with no path,

—To find my path and walk it, free.

But the chase is over,

I've bought the prize,

The life I dreamed of,

I have it all,

But it feels empty,

Leaving me hollow, uncared for,

—Like a woman in a man's world.

Always number two.



“The Elenore”


The Eleonore is secretly a bitter enemy


of the male. She is a great betrayer of tenderness,


she will crack open any egg, reveal its yolk, and then devour it.

Without remorse she will lay waste to the infrastructure of romance—

nature's most fragile and beautiful invention. She is an agent of chaos,


destroying everything in her path.


Why's that? -- You ask

She's a woman, that's how they always are–


And I hate having to deal with that assumption.

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