I imagine my mind as a factory,
With hundreds of people inside of me
Who work at their desks with pencils and ink,
To write out my thoughts and the things that I think.
They are staticians and doctors and men who suggest
Answers to questions when I take a test.
They are playwrights and editors who take to the screen
Movies and dramas whenever I dream.
They are psychologists and soldiers and comedians too,
Mho write out the scripts for the things that I do.
But in spite of these people, I have yet to find
What place I hold in this factory-mind.
What do I produce when I work at my desk?
Is there something that only I can do best?
Am I unneeded? A personality diminished?
Perhaps I'm a half-thought, simply unfinis---