Automated Me

behaving according to
bamboozled thought
even after bamboozles are shown
to be naught
mother's of learning
churning and churning
there's rebel attempts
based on false learning

but her butter's cover
smothers simulacrum
backing idle axiom

sitting and relaxing mum
A pink mustache taxi mum
I think I'm climbing on a bomb
Not out of anything, I thought
Tickets to a train, I bought
to another train, I shot
whiskey out my noise, I caught
reflection in a mirror, ought
To move differently, than tha

prolapsing rat racing
outpacing the spacing
of lines to read between
self observations stink
enemy autopilots;
the default way to think
thought miracles are mere clawing
for more comfortable prisons
woke me
see thee
near impossibility
of being something new
within a culture of breeding
an exploitable being
I feel sorry boo boo