A Composition in Keyboard
Physiology; a humorous approach to not being able to type.
My fingers stroke the keys,
touching the letters,
Feeling the emotions waiting to be let out in words thrum inside of me.
My fingers ache for the reassurance of a pencil.
But they are beginning to feel the words bottled in those black block capitals,
All standing so proud on their gray squares.
But pride is such a simple
emotion,
Feel something different,
I beg.
Instead of highlighting
the little edges with light,
Showing how uniform you are,
Can’t you be different?
Show the wear from a thousand touches,
Let my fingers feel the life in each of you.
Isn’t there sadness
in your uniformity?
Isn’t there a desperate need to be different, unique?
Shouldn’t you show longing,
From all the touches that didn’t stay?
Can’t there be pain in the lifeless gray?
Death in the monotonous black shapes?
How about happiness in being
close to your neighbor?
Giddiness in hours of use for a purpose?
Love for a job well done.
But then, you can’t
see it can you?
You sit and stand at my touch,
But you never see the words that flow out of you.
They are up there, on a screen you can’t see.
No wonder all I feel is
thoughtless pride,
All you know is your upright existence,
Always working just how you’re supposed to,
Up down, up down, tirelessly.
How sad.