Future

Before me is a piece of paper, four right angles.

Black lines score its surface, parallel to the point of mockery,

Weighed down by the very same words that weigh me down:

Career. Career.

This weight on my shoulders holds me in the unyielding wooden chair,

And now is the time to choose my path, and I must not waiver, and I cannot hesitate.

I have been given the nails, and it is my duty to hammer them in.

I must decide. Now.                               

My pulse quickens, so I stall, looking down at a small ink cartridge in a slightly broken pen with a tendency to leak,

I am looking down at the rest of my life, waiting in the small cartridge worth less than five pence from the shop,

Waiting for me to make the potential the future.

I grit my teeth and scratch black marks onto the black lines,

 

And I watch the ink stain the paper.