I fill up the day so I don’t have to think

about anything but words

that appear one keystroke

at a time, but even that somehow falls

into disgrace when I consider the art

of the typewriter,

the quill with fading ink

or the press on its first run,

for all right minded people

to take solace in;

I cannot offer anything new

for by filling up the day,

by refusing to live in my head

with its stark boundaries

and all too clear regrets,

I lose myself in my own tedium.

Ian D. Hall 2016