Member-only story
Immune
A short poem
Society
has its way of making us
turn ourselves
inside out
Of making our worlds
feel microscopic
and the people, who live in it,
turn into such small, insignificant
specimen
Being observed for mere classification
For no real reason
aside from labeling and
being filed away with the others
Never to be seen or heard from again
Society
has its way of placing doubt
in our minds and angst in our veins
Digging its knife into flesh,
to find what does not belong
Like surgeons in an operating
room
How they love to poke and pry
with their sharp and shiny tools
But I no longer seem to mind
I’ve grown quite accustomed to the needle-like
pain
And the blinding light of fluorescent bulbs
as piercing as eyes that refuse to overlook
the smallest of details
But I no longer seem to mind
I’ve grown rather immune to any possible
diagnosis
So go ahead
Poke and pry and dig
I no longer seem to dread
what they may or may not find
