Wish I had a Typewriter
Wish I had a typewriter,
Keys clacking like rain on a tin roof,
A symphony of thoughts and ink,
Unleashed from the prison of my mind.

But here I am, blocked to write,
A thousand thoughts swirling,
Caught in the web of my own doubts,
The cursor blinking, mocking my silence.

Bukowski would've downed a whiskey,
Lit a cigarette, and laughed at my plight,
His words raw, unfiltered, like life itself,
A middle finger to convention and pretense.
Yet I sit here, penless, keyboard silent,
Yearning for that old Remington,
Its metal heart pounding out truth,
A rebellion against the mundane.

So I'll raise my glass to the ghosts of poets,
To Bukowski, Ginsberg, Plath,
May their spirits infuse my fingertips,
And someday, perhaps, the words will flow.

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