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By Jaime W., New City, NY

   I miss the keyboard,

even the pen

that always

leaks,

leaving behind

trademark blots

of

blue ink.



Sometimes

I try to

I remember.

Those days

I would write and

publish,

but now

my refrigerator door

stays empty

and cold.

Magnetic fruit beg for a purpose.



I sit.

At a blank screen

where the cruel cursor

winks at me,

in mockery.



I used to know how.

I would type and create

masterpieces.

In just thirty minutes,

I'd have my own Bob Ross painting.

But now the words vanish,

as I search for the next thing to write ...





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