Forget pushing,
Getting out of the envelope
Is the hardest to accomplish.
And yet we strain our sinewy way,
Ploughing through page after page,
Often until dawn.
Utterly drained,
Having unselfishly scribbled, until silent.
Not one individual will care to listen,
Oh the pain of it.
At the centre of all this
Is a great plodding sense of loss.
It is magnetic, hypnotic, chronic and chilling.
All because,
Under the treat of what could have been
The pen was the first of its kind to blink.
And so relinquishing the Art,
I dutifully settled for poetry,
And the nevertheless life-style
Of The Oblivious Ones.

© 2019 Christopher Thompson
All rights reserved.

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