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the type writer
by Jared FladelandThis typewriter will be the death of me.
The letters have all but worn away,
but my fingertips remember their location.
I type for just a moment and the vultures
pluck my ventricles.
With every crumpled piece of paper
in the waste basket
I've lost something more. Every word
is precious. They cannot be replaced.
But I'm too prone to error.
In this haze of the yesterday's news
I cannot focus a single moment
and the room tilts to the left
and the only sunlight comes from the moon.
On cloudy nights the glowing hum of
a 7-Eleven keeps me company.
I am tortured by this life,
the life of a writer.
Nothing ever comes out like in my head
and a dozen attempts never rings true
yet if I get it even half right
people applaud me.
I return to the clacking of my only friend,
the typewriter. 03/01/2014 Posted on 03/01/2014
Copyright © 2026 Jared Fladeland
| Member Comments on this Poem |
| Posted by Chris Sorrenti on 03/01/14 at 11:36 PM LOL! Sure can relate to this one, at least back in the old days; thank god for correctable print cartridges. Jarod, did you mean 'only' friend in that second last line? |
| Posted by Quentin S Clingerman on 03/02/14 at 09:26 PM lol! I wasn't sure anyone used the typewriter as separate from a monitor and computer anymore. I think I finally got rid of the old one I had. It had seen its best days for sure. Enjoyed your wry reflections on the use of the typewriter. |
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