cough, sigh, hack hack

the typewriter sits in her case,
lonely, under my desk, waiting,
i feel her kicking at night,
sometimes i can hear the clicks in my head,
and i can see it grow legs and walk up onto my chest,
and scream, "fucking do something!"
i'm scared
what if it's not good?
fuck it if it's not good,
i'll use the pages to wipe the snot from my nose
or the blood from my calluses
this keyboard is too hallow for me,
i need interaction.
give me interaction!
you don't understand do you?
you shouldn't
it's one of the those things you keep close to your heart
locked away in the cellar doors of your mind
to be awaken with the sun shooting through your blinds
as the morning cold runs up your toes and grabs your
balls and squeezes them tight so you have to place the pillow
right between your legs for some kind of warmth
she's starring at me now
the typewriter i mean
i'm faithful i swear,
i've just been busy with work,
don't hate me, you know i do my best writing on you,
just give me a minute to get in place,
in a good place and a good movement,
i don't want to waste you on some bullshit story about
the death of moths
.