Which am I?

The Man or the Machine?

The Artist or the Cog?

Am I that writer with a monochrome flat cap

Taking drags of words from my cigarettes,

Or the white-collared worker

pumping away at resume templates

Always looking for that better job?

Am I to create or am I to work?

Sleepless nights with mares of insecurity,

Or hollow days with dreams of greatness?

​

Tell me!

Which am I?

The Alive or the Just Barely?

The megabytes of unfinished text files,

growing in size like risky behemoths with every keystroke?

Or the constant shuffle back and forth, to and fro,

head too muffled by the rustle and bustle of that holy financial security?

Symbiosis be fucked, I know I want just the one,

but can’t subsist without the other.

I want to be that Man with reams of thoughts under his arm,

with written ideals and breakthroughs that others need to see.

But just as I fight against our current human condition,

It rears its head to lash back.

Wanting nothing more than to swallow me up,

And turn me too into the tragic characterizations that I so fear.

So I ask again now,

Walking on the shaky double path that threatens to crumble beneath my feet,

Making my bones tremble and causing this alien weight to slither up my gut:

​

Which am I?

The Man or the Machine?