The typewriter

Posted on 02/11/2011


Friends and bloggers have often asked me why my posts are not about peppy or light topics. This poem partly answers that, and explains why writing, for me, is so much about self discovery and confronting myself with things I am usually evasive of. 

The poem’s based on this Magpie photo, available at:

I typed, alone, some nights,
Pages soaked in anger, fear, and sorrow.
As if, someone were listening to me,
I typed, alone, some nights.

My fingers melted,
To comforting sounds of the writer.
As if, my sorrow found its voice in my fingers,
My fingers melted.

Of my true story,
I typed and reread the undiluted version.
As if, I were my own third person,
Of my true story.

I wrote what was unspoken,
The greyest of shades, typed in black and white.
As if, my emotions befriended courage in the typewriter,
I wrote what was unspoken.

I  type furiously,
The typewriter’s noise reaching crescendo.
As if, it reflects my comprehension of sorrow,
I  type furiously.

I write of only sorrow,
The joyous moments I live.
As if, they don’t need a typewriters solace,
I write of only sorrow.

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