Lore.
Sometimes people ask, and then
I ask myself; why do I write?
The click-hit-tap of fingers and keys,
the soundtrack of my life it seems,
is the voice of boredom and unknown
tedium slowly slipping away from
subconsciousness and onto a blank
white document smearing with ink.
Every inhale-exhale gets even easier
with each strike of the musical
typewriter under the electric (possessed)
flash of the fleshy digits; transporters
of the science of the mind: fiction;
lies. As easy as breathing itself.
My answer is as simple as any;
It’s a part of my make-up.
I ask myself; why do I write?
The click-hit-tap of fingers and keys,
the soundtrack of my life it seems,
is the voice of boredom and unknown
tedium slowly slipping away from
subconsciousness and onto a blank
white document smearing with ink.
Every inhale-exhale gets even easier
with each strike of the musical
typewriter under the electric (possessed)
flash of the fleshy digits; transporters
of the science of the mind: fiction;
lies. As easy as breathing itself.
My answer is as simple as any;
It’s a part of my make-up.