Trash Typed

Flexing my fingers,

I get ready to type another useless piece,

Of trying to type one.

Some hungry monster tells me its not enough,

But hey, its never enough,

We thrive on the thrill of improvisation,

The survival of trashy writers.

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Chasing

In the world of journalism, one must be ready to run.

One must have a paitent mind and a quick pen.

One must always be hungry for more, one quote is not enough!

One must constantly chase things.

It’s always been like this, fast, blurry movements into infinity.

Keystroke

Each tap a whisper,

Each stroke a purpose,

Telling their story through many instruments,

The keyboard,

The pen,

That random piece of pencil stuck behind your ear,

Every tool has a strength,

A weakness that fights through each written word,

It`s all there, all done,

Every one discovered,

Every one used,

Only its mysteries are left for you.

 

Instrumental Problem

It’s there

ideas flowing from gray matter

I can feel it, pulsing-wanting to be let out

How can I? When I can barely write what I think onto paper

from mind to pen  pen to paper connections lost

I wish it otherwise, let it fly

Change pens, I have tried

Change books I have tried

Type on slow keyboards, watch as my fingers fumble

what instrument conducts the mind

better than a pen?

 

Figuring out Cliches

I have learned the hard way,

That everything is cliché

Only because everyone in this part of the world,

Is exposed to pretty much the same things,

Same media,

Stories,

Food,

Government,

And movies that consistently use,

Lessons, morals and clichés,

It’s now nearly impossible to create an idea,

That does not use either a fact or a cliché,

So please, change

The guidelines for theme.

 

Here are some facts or clichés:

Funerals can bring people together

Food brings people together

Love dies with death

Love dies when hope dies

Etc…

Lost Voice

I’ve lost my voice.

The voice that used to sound like my own,

Whenever I wrote, it was mine,

My work, my skills, my pain,

Bleeding onto the page,

Now I can barely write with my voice,

Only in poetry,

Does it sing,

Hidden under complexities,

Of things I do not wish to say,

I’ve lost it and I’m scared to see what will happen,

If I write.