I lie in bed gazing at my bumpy popcorn ceiling I let my stare settle to follow my fan's revolution Focusing on one plates trip around its axle It is without fail and I find in my fan dependability It deserves its place up there It knows the right direction and spinning speed It has no temptations to stop or slow And rarely does it make a sound It refuses to fall, to let the pressure win It does not care its only painted to look like wood Or that its never dusted clean It does not complain about how the lights get more attention Or how central air is more popular It has purpose on the verge of personality I lie in bed for my purpose is not so clear And a personality not so worthy Yet I am the one with the freedom to choose Question: But what if my answers Not to be This fan seems to have proven a bitter point It has made a mockery out of my passive glares I fear its judgements, for it whispers disapproval I tear myself away from its patronizing winds And allow my eyes to float and find a mirror Making sense of looks and location And the human stare that beams back Smiles and agrees Decisively objective in its demeanor I must admit that my reflection is convincing But its light is late, and its fancy tricks deceive Tis a fools mistake to reduce verbs to stale states Question: To be alive or to live a life Or choose to gamble with one's talent to lie I lie; I lie in bed