To Write

This is an ugly poem
don't try and look for beauty
I'm filling up my hours
of my daily writing duty.

My hands demand of me a solid hour every day
a time to sit alone and think of things
to feel exactly what it is i want to say
(even though it's often stupid and stilted, like this one)

My fingers like to strum the keys
they like to hold a pen.
The feel of ink against their skin
is their kind of zen.

They flow against the paper with the familiarity of lovers
they fix mistakes and write them out
I wish I had their skill.
But all I've got is doubt.

This would be somewhat less terrible if I wasn't emotionally drained, but there you go