crumpled litter.

(image from the typewriter museum via retronaut.co)

she sits there,

taunting me.

her crisp clean front

flawless blue lines.

flirting with me

to caress her,

one cursive stroke at a time.

she’s whiter than linen

only doesn’t smell as nice

easily crumpled litter

should i leave her scrapped, behind.

she craves to be touched

even a meager scribe

would make her just.

yet composed of printed fabric

my rough scrawl

would only smudge her beauty.

so here we are–prosed utility, fictitious foe.

 she, a blank page.

and i?

an uninspired writer.

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About beautifulbird

a very curious lass with oh-so-much to say. this blog, a creative space for me and my words to play.

View all posts by beautifulbird

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