Sometimes when I sit and think,
Or look at a blank page,
I wonder why I take the time to write.
Instead, I could just take a nap
Or, sit and drink a cup
And in the peaceful moment take delight.
But, I feel compelled it seems
To put the word to page
Recording there the things that fill my mind.
Is it some gremlin in my head
That's bent to waste my time
Or, are there reasons I have yet to find
That drive me to apply my fingers
To the plastic keys
And watch the words that scroll across the screen
That sometimes seem so simple
And at other times complex
While most of them are likely never seen
By anyone but me who cares
One whit 'bout what I write
Especially when they're as they are today
Where they are just a sequence of
Black letters on the page
And nothing there important for to say?
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