I am the who hides like a hermit at the shell of my typewriter
With the sound of bells and rings to each of my lines
I am well aware I was born at the wrong era of time
I know that my soul is much older than my mind
I make mistakes,
some worse, some better,
than we all make in life
It’s a crumble, a throw-away
Another paper to replace
As I start fresh with my chin
and shoulders held high
Unplugged to the noise
that comes from outside
Fingers placed delicately in line
As they wait for the command
of my thoughts arranging in order
Composing the keys that pound
against the ink ribbon
Chick-chick-chaw-chick-chick-bing
An orchestration of the typewriter as my mind begins to sing
I am moved by the utterance
of my own typing
Fingers dancing to every beat
And for that reason I will always be writing
In a room
with grey walls
sitting on a wooden seat.