Translation

I miss the feel of a pen
between my fingers
the translator of my mind
that makes me feel free
helps my thoughts unwind.

This keypand under my fingertips
is lifeless and cold
it gives no personality
to the story being told

I used to be able to flourish
to scribble and cross out
now the backspace bar
lets me erase my doubts

leaving no proof
of any mistakes made
as though my mind
was basking in the shade

of its own glory and skills
that cast a shadow
so vast and impressive
that nothing else can grow

yet my musings are just flowers
or maybe even weeds
readily basking in the sun
telling me their needs

to grow roots
to make a base
so the leaves can flourish
at their own pace

or to set seeds
and spread themselves thin
like a wildfire of greenery
blooms heard above the din

of silence so fragile
it is easily broken
by my words, written
and until now, unspoken