A Conglomeration of Sorts

My Mac Book Pro is in the shop

My writing halts and almost stops

I often write with ink and pen

I think I will, I think I can

The paper crinkles up and then

I smooth it out and try again

The night is young but I am not

My Mac Book Pro is in the shop

Will it come back and work for me?

and only God can make a tree.

See, that may rhyme but where’s the sense?

I’ve lost my grip on present tense

I stutter and stammer and run out of steam

incoherently trying to spell out a dream

Sometimes I wish I would leave me alone

and wait for my laptop to find its way home

Writing a poem does not make me a poet

and without a doubt, it’s the truth and I know it

Non sequiturs and nonsense and the word, incremental

are surely unconnected, and only incidental

since words ebb and flow as a matter of course

but less-the-none and none-the less

my Mac Book Pro is in the shop

My writing halts and then it stops

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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