My Fingers

 

My fingers seem to thud with

ennui and malaise,

a finger lingering,

over the keyboard,

the key-bored.

 

The jaunty bouncing of

my fingers, tickity-tapping,

all over the keys, buoyant with

lively and happy words are

little sledgehammers now.

 

Sledgehammer fingers slam the keys

with an irritated gusto,

as the weight of the worries

of the World press on my

shoulders.

 

The optimistic tapping of

my fingers, with lovely and livid

verse happily flowing, seems to have

been stifled by horrors,

creeping in every crevasse.

 

Words from other fingers,

from other minds,

snapped into reality

fluent in hate and fear;

make my fingers heavy.

 

Makes my mind sad.

Makes my shoulders sag.

Makes my elbows droop,

makes my wrists ache,

makes my fingers slow.

 

Except for one finger,

proudly held so extremely high,

in the faces of hypocrisy and

hatemongering: That finger.

You know the one, that finger is just fine.