Maybe I would do a great job being a rocket engine
I flare up so quickly that I could fuel a whole town in minutes
I could shut up so quickly that everything would
turn cold again
But I am not a machine; I too have feelings
I am not perfect, nor as consistent
as what you expect a push-button to be
My patience is compartmentalized, one
shorter than the other, one longer
than the other. One running out, the other
brimming in its chamber
My seemingly smooth and cool exterior
holds leashed rumblings, roars, and heat within
Control is my middle name, but I don’t rely on
a push-button to get me going
I can be quiet and safe, but I can be so sharp,
so dangerous... that I drive people away.
The one time I become human... imperfect...
the one time they can’t accept....
I may be like an engine that needs to be
left alone in silence. I may be an engine
that needs to operate before
I fall into abysmal paralysis...
I may be like a computer... whose answers
are always expected, whose human comprehension
is next to boundlessness, who’s forever growing...
that could prove you wrong or be proven wrong
Like a proper engine there’s always control for me
I break off that norm and I am thrown to the fixing bin.
I lash and sputter, and you come with your wrenches
to tighten my screws. I am not allowed of inconsistencies.
But I am not a machine. I am as inconsistent as
the weather could be. My pump is called the heart.
It may be fixed, it may not be; but it’s not worth throwing.
The one minute it squeaks, and you call it defective.
I can’t be a rocket engine... I can’t always take you to
space. I’m still bound to terrestrial chains. The earth claims me.
I am not a machine. Expect inconsistency from me.
I am forever growing.
