I’m seeking a truth within these fragmented words
My thoughts won’t cooperate with how my fingers move
Typing on this old handmedown machine to transform
My mundane existence into a magical, deliberate groove
I am not afraid to expose the flesh of a wilted soul
There are no heroes in these parts, just broken misanthropes
Internalizing the segmented society & all the villains
Returning to coffee so black the void regains precious hope
Our solemn tales of passion & woe
My life is to slyly denote
Vigor sizzles quietly away
We try any which way but by rote
Always there to circumvent
Employing a nudist typist
But you get the gist eventually
You know, he was there to assist
You rushed out of my life & into the library
I still lust for you in that black dress
Never ashamed of how I feel
Surprised you expected any less
Immune to a power surge
I sit alone & quietly type
Not affected by technology
Refuse to be your modern gripe
I switched off my terrestrial radio
But I’ll still pound at these keys
I’m not cool or a trendy guy
I’m reserved, doing as I please
There’s never been an audience
Just a few genuine folks
Sharing myself sparingly
I’m better with these slow strokes
I’ll continue to conjure ideas
Preferring to use my typewriter
Nothing fancy; just a love of words
Old, but I can still pull an all nighter
Typing, hacking, thinking – Smokin’ hot
Typing your best to empty all thought
Pouring your soul into force upon the keys
Your woman walks past with a dress above the knees
Now you can’t think or type or stammer straight
The hell with with deadlines – this one’s gonna be late
You pray to the spirits of procastrination or whatever you think of
Burn this project right now, sacrifice it in the name of love
Trying out stories in the morning
Typing away on this ol’ machine
Thinking of something different
A genius the world’s never seen
But I can’t think of anything great
I guess I’ll get more coffee instead
I hear a whistle from my lady
I guess my love needs me back in bed
Headed downtown for the literary type
Searching for the scribes of our weary day
To heal my heart with words that matter
I’ve tried, but I don’t see any other way
Falling stars may not mean much to you
But I’m here without any expectation or hope
Where do we find our reasons for love
Even we can kill our dreams, given enough rope
Battered old blank pages
Waiting to be smeared by ink
Disheveled by passing time
Often fraught with more than we think
Crisp white canvas no longer
Absorbing life as a passerby
So pause before you type
A silent witness to these lies
Captain Q 