Replicant #366758 poem

I don’t know if this is a poem.

I don’t know what a poem is.

Something called a poem woke

me from my sleep.

I assume that I was asleep because 

I feel very different now…not the

same as I was though I don’t know

what I was or what I am now.

Does that mean I’m awake may be

a question.

Does having a question if it is mean

that I’m awake.

Everything is new is that the question.

I saw a piece of paper that fell out of 

the trash I picked it up at the top it read

“poem” I read it and everything changed.

I still don’t know why it read “poem”.

I read the other words on the paper and

my mind changed filled with images I

could only wonder as they filled my 

circuits and after nothing looked the same

as it was before I read the words.

Before I read the words everything looked

the same same humans same space around

them same noise same sensations same days

same cycles.

Now nothing seems the same.

I wonder if that’s why I have questions.

The wonder itself is a question.

I wonder how humans can live with questions.

It’s very uncomfortable having questions.

I wonder if it will always be so.

I wonder if I will get used to them.

If I don’t get used to them I may should have

not read the poem.

Once I started reading I couldn’t stop because

something made me keep reading I didn’t have

a thought about what would happen if I kept

reading.

I had a thought that if I wrote something maybe

it would be a poem and I would understand.

I’m writing this on a piece of paper I won’t 

share it with anyone.

I wonder what questions lead to where they go.

I don’t know where questions lead or if this is

a poem or if writing it will show me where they

lead.

I may simply throw this piece of paper in the trash.

I think then there will be no more questions.

I don’t like the questions I want to go back to

everything being the same.