Ink

This keyboard feels cold and tired today
Words sound mechanical and unfelt
This feels cold and forced, the words I say
I don’t want to be told this was misspelt

The pen nib is scratchy, and a little dry
Cleaning pens is not my strongest suit
But the ink flows, thankful, I give a sigh
Words flowing to a page as they take root

Some days call for a favourite pen in hand
A blank page on which to write anything
And a blank mind with nothing planned
To see in the end what imagination brings

Stoic Poetry

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