Oh, to be a dot!

Oh, to be a dot!
So perfectly round, and filled with native colour;
So wonderfully simple, and ridiculously important
for the prevention of disorder.

Oh, to be a dot!
To dare to spill out of my circular prison,
bleed onto the paper in all sorts of places
and rebel against the system unknown!

Oh, to be a dot!
The havoc I could spell in sentences,
the pollution I would cause for polkadots,
complete chaos under the moon.

Oh, to be a dot!
May I evolve into an oval, or do I devolve?
Perfectly circular, pretension of symmetry,
or the young of a vague beginning?

Oh, to be a dot!
It’s supposed to be easy,
like the teem of the tide or the wave of the wind,
to stay still in self-inflicted darkness.

Oh, to be a dot!
The spots and stripes of lions and tigers understand,
to be stereotyped and expected to stay the same…
You are not the only ones to want to grow beyond what you are.

Oh, to be a dot!
For people to take us for granted, misuse us,
mistake us for filth or stains, and
still ignore us anyway.

Oh, to be a dot
is a really dreadful existence… it requires no depth of education,
no challenge or reson d’etre. It simply is.
I wish it wasn’t.

It sucks being a bloody dot.