The bright light of the computer taunts me.
Is this what my writing has been reduced to?
Mindlessly cranking out poetry,
as words flow from my fingers onto the screen.
The perfect black lines dance together,
beckoning me forward towards this no man's land
of modern day literature.
The only thing that sets my writing apart
is a copyright sign, my name following.
My nervous scrawl can't be transcribed into cyberspace.
Jul 21, 2011
Jul 21, 2011 at 9:20 PM UTC
The bright light of the computer taunts me.
Is this what my writing has been reduced to?
Mindlessly cranking out poetry,
as words flow from my fingers onto the screen.
The perfect black lines dance together,
beckoning me forward towards this no man's land
of modern day literature.
The only thing that sets my writing apart
is a copyright sign, my name following.
My nervous scrawl can't be transcribed into cyberspace.
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