A terrible poem that will either be revised into oblivion or simply tossed out.

Vap
Vop
Vutch
Scribblescrabble scratch
Click click click.
The mute writer goes about his business.

A quick quatrain before I leave.

The rain buffets his stone features
Carrying him away, grain by grain.
Thunder cracks
And so does he.

Obsolescence (will probably be changed soon)

Does this world have any use for me?
Can a writer survive in a world that doesn't read?
I could write for television, perhaps
Journey through the vast wasteland in hopes of expanding it.
Movies are drifting to a dark, damp place
The days of Citizen Kane unfortunately long gone.
Perhaps pure poetry will survive,
Though the poets themselves may starve.
If so,
I will stand among the hungry with pride.
I hope it will not come to that.
I desperately hope it will not come to that.
I may be obsolete
But I still work.

No. 2

What is this pale yellow device?
Its trails most valuable
Indestructible once absorbed.
Its value lies not in and of itself
But where it was and will yet be.

Ideas left in dirty stains
On otherwise pristine white pages.

This is a rare thing
Something worth more dirty than clean.

And even as the fingers of fearful flame
Grasp at ideas that upset
This pale yellow device's trails
Are among the most valuable
They fear no flame.

Tick Tock

Tick Tock Tick Tock
My final is done and now I shall walk
From place to place in my mental stock
Of words and letters and ideas that talk
The time has come to write.

Read Aloud.

Read aloud.
Read aloud and watch the words run around.
Watch them chase one another across the ground.
Watch elegant As, and Os most round
Chase one another across the ground.
Reading Aloud
Sets them free
Free to play like you or me
To swim in a pond, to climb a tree
When you cannot read aloud
When shimmering vowels produce groans and growls
You can still set them free
By reading silent-ly.