Creation.I lean forward and type,More Like This
stretching my legs out before the night.
My head hurts.
The page is aglow like a lunar-powered device,
I stare at the keys with pale letters and numbers.
It is English, the language I see.
Each word a thoughtful formation from beyond my time.
My neck hurts.
I do not bother illuminating my space.
It will surely remain unchanged.
The pens rolling about for spontaneous use
and headphones dipping lazily down the cabinet,
housing the crisp layers of white print paper that must be reloaded incessantly.
My throat hurts.
My screen flashes brilliantly clean,
ready for the flow of expected creativity.
First I avert to my coffee and take in the aroma,
then a sip.
Write, I will, and fingers fly into a craze of motion.
My head still hurts.