Reverie

The pencil’s metallic probing tip

Etches numbers, variables, formulas,

Creating solutions,

Lacking true answers,

 

And I am the machine,

Pinions and pistons in perpetual motion,

Propelling myself

 

Into a future 

That I did not choose, not entirely,

Where every fact is absorbed,

Where every bone 

Is memorized and regurgitated—

 

Tibula

Tarsals

Metacarpals

Clavicle

Ulna

Sacrum

 

—Until they all become osseous tissue,

Until the heart simply becomes a vascular organ,

Until I am the healer of others

And cannot treat myself.

 

It all brings me to wonder,

What if my world was not decided?

If checkboxes and calculations set no boundaries?

If work was not late night duty calls,

Diagnosing disease,

Prescribing pills?

 

But rather,

Work was the task 

Of letting my words flow?

What if work was simply me,

Laying myself on the page,

Allowing others eyes to 

Probe?

This poem is about: 
Me
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 

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