The pencil’s metallic probing tip
Etches numbers, variables, formulas,
Lacking true answers,
And I am the machine,
Pinions and pistons in perpetual motion,
Into a future
That I did not choose, not entirely,
Where every fact is absorbed,
Where every bone
Is memorized and regurgitated—
—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,
Work was the task
Of letting my words flow?
What if work was simply me,
Laying myself on the page,
Allowing others eyes to