Saturday, September 24, 2016


Although my pixelated pen still writes
Each day, or near enough, and I can leave
My lines behind in many bits and bytes,
My inked-end shaft I too seldom upheave,
Too little put a ball point to the page
And spill across it mind-blood in its train.
Arcane symbols, frustrating to rage
The reader unaccustomed to my strain
To make with hand-work words easy to read,
Day after day I neglect to inscribe,
Failing my loud inward voice to heed--
I hear it e'en if I don't imbibe.
Each day I hope to somehow better be
At writing more; hope springs eternally.

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