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Poetry Competition: Anonymous

Why Are There Robots In My Bedroom?

I wake up this morning from the unrelenting beams of the sun on my eyes. Although, today, the rays seem to be a bit stronger, a bit more determined. It’s not its usual soft-light-birds-singing-warm-morning shine. Instead, it’s the harsh metal-reflecting-fire-inducing glare off the Robots in my bedroom.

There are robots in my bedroom, sixteen to be exact: 2 lying next to me, 4 by the window, 3 by the desk, 1 blocking the door, 3 on the floor, 3 by the mirror. They don’t even notice I’m awake.

The one by the door lifts up a pointing stick, and the rest go silent. They reach for their notebooks, and I follow. “Head Robot” (the one by the door) begins his lesson. I hear his words, but they carry absolutely no meaning.

All the other robots seem very focused, so I stay focused too. I even nod along to the droning voice to reassure Head Robot I’m with him. I sit there for the rest of the lecture, but not once do I question, Why are there Robots in my bedroom?

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