The writer's first post here

A/N: Written with spoken word poetry in mind. 163 words


I am an anachronism.
So what if I am?
I long for the feel of paper
Against my bare hand
I weep, bleed, and breathe on pages
Since a screen will not suffice. 

I'm that girl waiting
Right by the post box
For the missives
Which will help me pick out
From the multitudes of men
The one whose prose is better than mine. 

I tuck a watch in my pocket
To walk out to catch sun rays
And what fresh air may be left
Airconditioners will not miss my
Ever restless presence
And complaining sinuses.

I dream of flags on barricades
As well as of sailcloth and breezes
My hips and feet itch for a beat
Of brassy trumpets and swing
Despite the sterile screeching
Under the lights of the club

I feel for the scholars bent
In their romanticized literary garrets
I'm the Renaissance Girl
In a world of specialization
Indeed, I am that which is odd
I am an anachronism.