Am I real? 
Is the first thought
that fights its way 
through unfurling consciousness
and I press for five more minutes
to consider the question -
and gather my pieces 
until I am rendered solid enough 
to be -
or at least pretend -
humanity. 
 
And as I struggle together 
into an approximation 
of the right sort of shape -
torso/arms/legs/head -
the dreams scrabble for purchase 
on the smoothed, soothed shell
falling away in slow motion -
before they can tell me
what they were trying to say.
And I know deep inside 
I have lost something
key 
to humanity,
a secret - missing in action 
or inaction. 
 
And the day feels 
an uncomfortable play -
where I don’t know the lines
and they are broken
all wrong.
So I fake it, 
frozen under blue lights
awkwardly twirling 
on taught strings
until I can exit stage left -
back into gruelling darkness
spent
from the attempt,
at humanity. 
 
And when that is judged now
by how many fire hydrants
I can see -
in a grid -
and not by my capacity 
to love/think/create -
withered away under the cage - 
I know I have failed myself
playing someone else’s tune 
loudly over my own,
and that I am the slice
in the square that may count -
but may not - and I can’t
plot
my humanity
like this.