Complications
for writers
I married my pencil.
She loved me as I loved her,
we made love, producing poems,
creative non-fiction, and a bit of fiction
in the sense of drama and comedy.
It was special.
Until I met my computer.
We flirted, she had much to offer,
not only an outlet,
but an endless source of information.
We had a brief fling.
My pencil felt betrayed,
and I felt I had wasted away
the best relationship of my life.
We divorced.
I asked out a laptop.
It was interesting:
Doing anything, anywhere, at anytime I wanted.
She flaunted her appeal,
but her insides were refurbished parts,
so it only lasted a while.
The pain of an ex ran deep
and it was hard for me to believe
she would break down,
but she did, and left me.
I miss my pencil.
Posted by Kevin