Your aspirations lay
In holding a scalpel
Over a patient on a table
In a sterilised room,
Claustrophobic at best,
One you seemingly know all too well.
While my aim lay
In laying on your table
And being the flesh you cut open,
After having lived a full life,
As you explore my organs,
Searching for the damages
On a warrior’s armour.

That which you may call an oesophagus,
I call the passage
Of the flavours of culture
And what you refer to as limbs,
Are my channels of stimuli.
My lungs are nothing short
Of being organs to consume
Places’ intangible essence by.
And my heart pumps passion
Into each of my veins.
My eyes do not merely see,
I believe that they capture,
Learn and observe,
While communicating in silence.

You aspire to be great
In a field of science
And I look forward to
Living grandly in a cornfield.
But I must tell you, my friend,
That though we aim
To be ambitious in our own ways,
My lack of enthusiasm
In what you deem worthy
Must not be condoned
As the absence of goals
For I am unlike you,
And that does not
Make me inferior or incorrect
It only makes me different.


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