Still Words Unread

I just want to write, for whatever rhyme or reason that I can make of today, I just want to write, anything, something, nothing, it doesn't make any difference to me, at least not at the moment. Warming up my fingers with tapping and waiting for my thoughts to clear and something to fall from the clouds and land on my lap. I'll keep my eyes looking up, while I take another sip of coffee.

I'm writing hesitantly. I can't seem to find the focus or interest to drag myself beyond these tip-tap thought-words. How about another round of person, place, thing? Why did I stop writing those? Did I just grow bored of them, or am I tired of reading and writing pointlessly?

The latter sounds familiar to the first.

Those people. Those places. Those things.
Grow bored. Get tired. Sound familiar.

I'd much rather think of myself writing the kinds of things that people will point to and oooohh and aaaahhh over and over them for seconds and thirds—telling their friends how deep the allegory goes.

Reeds through waves reflect visions of wonder-words read through waves of thought and suggestion.

My fingers will become calloused and never type again. I will ruin them. They will type into nubs and everyone will gasp at the sight of them. "What happened to your hands? Where did your fingers go?" I wrote words I thought people would read, but sadly, I was mistaken, and here they are—still words unread.

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