It’s not true; not all the way, but they say “it’s all about your choices.”
It makes no sense to me. I’ve never been much for inexplicable and
I find I spend copious time figuring my meaning, in situations I over
analyze into mathematical equations...am I conscious,
or just a calculator?
Or...have I been (and hopefully still am) living, breathing, feeling…?
I question...is this stealing life?
This is evading death.
Arguably, our beginning is our end, no? Upon inception of life, have
we not inherited death?
Yet again ponder...is there fate? Do they matter? (that is, my choices.)
I was once told, “if you can dream it, you can do it”. Shall I still build
the perfect life?
I’m beginning to be overtaken with impatience that surpasses my
I cannot say which is weaker, my spirit, or my flesh.
Once I’ve punched in my last numerical decision, how long will my
finger hover above ‘enter’-
how long until the outcome appears on my mortality calculator?
I often lose myself in the turmoil of emotion. Not cool and collected
like the others. It’s been decided, no I’m no calculator.
She seems to always descend at an uncanny time. An uncouth cold-
caller, that Mistress Death.
“I feel young”, I croon. Unanswered by my withering flesh.
I consider my carelessness, wishing I had been the master of more of
Sometimes, it’s one-in-the-same, self-defense and benevolence.
I’m just trying to find some connection, but still I question, “is that all
that makes this life?”
Will I ever find definition and solid intention strong enough to be
named the same as all the other countless, hazy perceptions we
I find myself to be robotic in response and anxious in nature. Perhaps I
AM an inhumane Calculator.
I consider myself a fine hostess, even admittedly, to thoughts that strip
down my benevolence.
“Death to those demons!” is my rising cry, “death!”
Death to unfavorable and unforgivable decisions, may they be buried
in my future choices.
May I think logically, and not be seduced into lethargy by the sinister
siren calls of mortal flesh.
I cannot quench my questions, they crawl in droves beneath my flesh.
What am I do to? What shall I make of my life?
How little do I truly control with personal decisions, how much will I
suffer from others choices?
Is it more dangerous to be over zealous or indeed catastrophic to
function merely as a calculator?
How does one prepare for the permanence of death?
Have we soured into surface common courtesy in the guise of true
I contemplate this often. What it would take to retain a group consciousness in distress…
Perhaps if we did not so often succumb to the momentary gratification
of pleasing our flesh
we would feel more peaceful, knowing we gave our best, to enter the
vault of death
grateful and complete, finishing the entirety of our life
with no devious schemes for feigned success or entitlement; no
we’ve all heard it before, “It’s all about your choices”
But the choices of the best differ from the choices of the rest and
it all depends on who’s willing to fight
their own flesh for a chance at life before imminent death.
There’s no calculation for conglomerate benevolence.
Human flaw will always persist.
C.e.M. Written 0ct.5 Edited Oct 6
my first attempt at a sestina. The words were chosen by students in my poetry class at random. Unfortunately the format of a sestina is messed up by the formatting of this website, but each line is supposed to end in some combination of the following 6 words "choices, benevolence, calculator, flesh, life, death". for more information on the intricate formatting of a sestina, google it! Enjoy