Innocent Keys

My fingers glide across innocent keys.
Angry. Sad. Misunderstood.
They fly and press and slide and punch.
Words.
Thousands of words.
Angry. Sad. Misunderstood.
They make no sense.
They make all the sense in the world.
When everything is burning.
These fingers glide gracefully, dramatically and poetically.
Words upon words.
A story buried deep within the caverns of my existence.
Angry. Sad. Misunderstood.

Delete. Delete. Delete.
My fingers press.