#1
Type the typewriter,
Smash the keys,
The writer of type,
The type that the screen denies,
I search for a pen,
No one in sight,
A run to a comp,
Could last me all night.
So, I sit down in place,
And steady my face,
Gonna work on my pace,
Fill it up with grace.

Ignite the page,
The first words, or sermon?
I deny, when you comply,
Your every comparison,
a waking, long sought-after,
hollow cry.
Murmur encompass,
The compass points north,
I said "Head to the port,
Only to get lost forever more?"
Words of shining descent,
Like a cosmic egg from space,
Every indent line,
All the sticky grime...

And I sit here,
where I shall type away,
Got no where to worry,
about my Printer Ink Blues
Or my open-toed shoes,
Where I let the rain get in.

This ink dries in a pool of blood,
Shimmering red, and dripping black.
And as I finish my work,
I see, the unpleasent misfortune presented upon thee,
A lack of ink before my solemnful eyes,
No more left in my typewriter pin,
No more pins, to feel my typewriter slot.

And as I cry,
The ink goes dry,
And my work,
incomplete. Years gone by,
Pains fly and fly,
But they all pass, here,
As my ink dies.
#2
Sorryz for me bad engrish.

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