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 ...
This piece has been published in Teen Ink’s monthly print magazine.
LOLOU
garshongjasmine
freeday15
ashbash
2Hearts1Dream
midnitewanderer
Lexie96
amesgriffey
SpringRayyn
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