My fingers on the keys,
I'm typing it all out,
There it's done,
All my feelings for you,
Right on the screen,
In my pretty blue font,
The cursor sits,
At the end of the sentence,
Blinking torturously at me,
Beggin me to do it,
It whispers to me,
"Press it. Go ahead."
My finger hovers,
Above the enter key,
For what seems like hours,
I close my eyes,
Bring my finger closer,
At the last minute,
I pull it away,
And delete the whole thing.

Thanks for reading.

*~erin~*

"Temporaryism has been the Black Plague and the Jesus of our age."-incubus

This is such a cool poem! Great writing . . .

Life is a moderately good play w/ a badly written thrid act. - Unknown