A lucky conscious
so much so
that
words without meaning
form under the clicking of my fingernails.
Plugging in, and swapping out
with algorithmic precision.
My hands know something that I do not.
I envy them.
Envy,
because they are the maker
behind the mask.
The unsung and unseen hero
of my conquests.
My conquests,
but my hands
separate from my mind.
This is not self-envy (if that's even logical).
Just like passing that test
you didn't know the answers to
I feel I cheat the world.
Claiming rights to words
not mine,
Only a part of me.