What pretty words flow,
From carpel tunnel hands!
Fingers click clock on keyboards,
Time sifting like sugar.

Creativity ebbs and flows--
Like the gentle rock
Of cerulean tide,
Lulling soul after soul to sleep.

The smell of arabica,
And chicory soup
Stifles surreptitiously--
(Twentyfourseven)

With admiring eyes
I glance down at the stark white background--
My bones ache for the lush black ink
To be my own words!

But until then I'll sit at the bottom
Of this empty poetry well,
Chain smoking and longing
To be on that **** front page.