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My Typewriter

by Richard Vince


When I'm feeling sad, and I don't want to sleep,
I love to listen to the striking of metal
On paper, etching a pattern of ridges into
A cold, white sheet of grey lined wood pulp,
Punching my feelings into a simple, inanimate object.

I love the way it makes my fingertips swell
And become red, especially when I make a mistake
And have to hit X over and over again.

It's nice to have it back, after all these months
Of having to use a pen and smudging ink.
Its openness comforts me, because I know that
I can always see its deepest, darkest, secrets,
So I feel comfortable with it seeing mine.

For me, it is a good therapist, gently coaxing
My feelings out from somewhere deep within me.
Once I start hitting the keys, no one can stop me
Except for me. Not even the soft rain falling
On the window, or the stars emerging
From their daytime of being outshone
By someone who has the unfair advantage of distance.

It also helps to remind me just how small
These words I churn out really are,
Because it takes so many of them to fill the page.

So, even though it feels cold and hard to the touch,
I know that that is just the outside,
And within beats a heart not of gold,
But of gleaming mirrored letters
Just waiting to be made into words.

03/31/2002

Posted on 04/01/2002
Copyright © 2019 Richard Vince

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