Typewriter

My typewriter is my instrument.

Hear me banging furiously,
Raucously, violently, battle crying through my fingertips.

Hear my anger, frustration, hurt, torment in the pounding of the plastic.

Fingers as teeth, gnashing, hollering, smashing, screaming to be heard -
They are thunderous in their fury.
Do you hear it?

And oh, the rage, the agony, I want it out!
Get it out, out, out of me onto the screen so that I can see how the notes compose themselves before me.

Wrists aching,
Neck throbbing,
Shoulders hunching,
Jaw clenching,
Throat dry and not from use,
But do you hear it?

Strumming like horse hair heartstrings,
Playing my keys as though the devil himself bought my voice and gave me the written word:
My typewriter is my instrument.