The keyboard stares silently.
Fingers rest motionless
awaiting the profound revelation
worthy of their grand coordination.

My mind's eye searches-
comes up empty and lacking.
"The Poet's Curse."
Worthless mundane thoughts,
nothing to touch the soul
to shed a single tear,
nor lift a tattered heart to glory.

A scene from, "Naked Lunch"...
A beaten, decrepit, typewriter
that talks, sharing its dark secrets.
Exuding a white slimy paste,
opening doorways to psychedelic journeys.
Freeing thought to drift without direction
through otherwise closed portals,
attaining free forms yet undreamed...

Could I be so lucky?

Alas...this is reality.
Frustration ends this session in failure,
blame is easy to place.
This cursed typewriter stares back,
not a blessed sound.

Perhaps I should have kept my day job.

©  S.Loeding
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