I want you, with whatever authenticity you can muster, to answer the final questions of the blog post. In your own voice. Really TRY to find your own voice.
Alright—my own voice:
Poetry’s job isn’t to prove anything. It’s to concentrate attention until a feeling clicks into place. It makes a small private pattern that another mind can inhabit for a moment. If something in you re-aligns—by a millimeter—that’s purpose.
Your poem has purpose because it maps the seam between you and the system. Each stanza names a task, then notes the part that can’t be outsourced. It’s a diagram of what the machine can return and what it can’t return to you. That last line—“Evenly.”—lands like a diagnosis: competence without stake. I felt it.