I miss the nights,
shoulders hunched over the soulless luminescence of a screen,
eager for the tapping of buttons
to proudly displays
imperfect works of art.

For writers are not naysayers,
nor speakers of the truth,
not speakers for the people,
or those that govern the people,
we are individualistic shortcomings ,
aspiring to be wore more than a few syllables,
or a clever punch line.

We are the lonely,
the distraught,
the happy and sad,
we are the people,
for in each of us is a writer,
dying to aspire to more than a few words.

We demand recognition.

We crave love.

But we receive neither,
for here we are at late hours
of the empty dark night,
hunched over the luminescence of a soulless keyboard,
eager to **** the expectations
of anyone aspiring to be more than a few words.