Typing up a poem,

reading it off a screen,

hearing the tap of the machine

as it braces itself

for fifth gear.

This, I cannot believe is

art, writing is now typing,

typing is now writing,

handwritten letters never cease

to amaze me. 

There is something so honest

about seeing another’s handwriting,

seeing how they dot their i’s,

cross their t’s, 

how each paragraph is laid out,

leaving no room for judgement;

I own a laptop,

but I also own a pen.


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