A typewriter

I read a poem about you

I read a poem about me

it was the same poem.

I saw a typewriter I wanted

and now I am on my way

to select the one that got away.

I have been reading about Hadley

and Ernest

and all the love they had

for each other

and still it was never enough

for an artist’s heart.

It breaks differently and has no command

because all it wants to do

is feel

skin instead of paper

sheets instead of keyboards.

It feels so close when you write to me

but so far when I look away.

It makes me sad to feel the end of a novel

approach, to see you come closer

than a mirror.

I was called a loser and a genius

all in the same sentence

no one really gets the “me” in you.

I try hard to stay away from colouring books

and unoriginal art. I automatically play

your song when you leave.

I hate when you come back.

It makes me feel like we were meant

to be together. It echoes the voices

in my head that kiss me between

conversations. I mostly fall apart

alone, but once in a while

I have been known to cause scenes

and barge out of restaurants. I run fast

I eat quick, I smile softly. I aim to

please. Please everyone

but myself.

I aim to burn,

burn myself.

It is part of my DNA

I felt this at eight

twelve

twenty-one

thirty-three

forty-five

you know what I’m talking about

it’s a blockbuster moment,

it comes with being a writer

you really don’t want to hurt anyone

but in the end

everyone hates you.

 

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8 thoughts on “A typewriter

  1. This is easily one of your best thus far, and I know you can only get better! I especially love this:

    “The only way to find your art is to lose touch with reality.”

    I couldn’t agree more.:)

    Liked by 1 person

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