I face the podium — present and poised,
or at least I try to be.
The aspiring lawyer has mastered the art
of speaking evasively.
A closed book,
intentionally lacking clarity.
Deliberate words, practiced answers,
discarded feelings
filed away
amid a cabinet of dusty case files.
What’s professionalism and protection to me
is aloof and impersonal to others.
They don’t see the arguments
I’ve lost with myself
long before I speak atop the stage
and long before I face the courtroom.
I cite logic like precedent.
In fact, I cling to it
like a weighted safety blanket.
Something to keep me grounded
when every stability I’ve known has left.
Even in law, there’s poetry.
It’s tucked between deadlines, ambition
and for the most whimsical of lawyers,
behind control.
Yet surely, it’s there.
Not the pretty poetry
with rhymes
or embellished language.
It’s something much quieter,
but it’s still mine to hold.
And so, the aspiring lawyer has learned
emotion — the beautiful, the ugly
and everything in between —
feels safest when touched
vicariously
through the eyes and hearts
of others.
The aspiring lawyer sees emotion as
liability.
As mere technicality;
the result of procedural error,
a failure to follow the code.
Something to be corrected
and cautiously locked away
in a cabinet,
one which even I’ve lost the keys to.
But never a case to be won
nor a case to be dismissed.
