Manipulation

A person is the only machine run by other machines;

When pressed, we have an outcome, a change. But that change

Is caused by another and another and infinite circumstances and smashed broken

Buttons, pressed until stuck.

A person is the only machine run by itself;

The oldest among us know that in times of brokenness that

The most tested tinkerer among us is the one that lives in the machine, who knows that

To reassemble, it's best to start from scraps.

A person is the only machine that does not run at all;

Rather it is puppet to dangling hands

Whose grim limbs dance and copper guts spill time after time but regardless

Return to the puppeteer for the fix.

A person is the only machine that is constantly running;

A moving moment moves mechanically,

Mincing and mutilating morbid memories, making meaningful missing, and meaningless a mystery,

Morphing a mismatched mind. 

A person is the only machine that can fix itself by taking a part away;

The cogs that clog cognisance

So commonly flog the conscience, cutting with conglomerated comments that

The confounded computer fondles.

So often a person is the only machine that will refuse to be fixed;

Too sweet the satisfaction of solidity,

The sameness swallows them and slowly sucks smidgens of self from skin and

Slipping, streaming, smiling while sliding asunder.

Too often a person is a machine that turns off too soon.

Long, lumbering loneliness,

Lost and left lingering, listening, loving, lunging, lowering, losing

Until at last love listens, lusting.

People are not machines.

People are powerful. People push.

People push people past points of proper parity, to prisons preferred by a problematically propogated population.

Poorly put, a picked, prickly punishment.