The Loneliness of a Long-Distance Writer
A poem
A poem
I sit alone in a room,
the faint hum of the computer
my only companion.
Fingers glide across the keyboard,
filling the blank page
with metaphors and rhyme.
My audience is faceless, nameless,
scattered across the globe
like stars in a limitless sky.
I craft each line carefully,
polishing each word while ensconced in silence.
Yet my message in a bottle drifts out
into the ocean of the internet,
joining the chorus of millions.
Will my voice be distinguished
from the ceaseless chatter?
The work thrills and nourishes me,
then winks out like a firefly
into the digital ether.
Brief sparks of recognition reward persistent posts
and steadily accumulate clicks and views
from curious passersby.
I am buoyed by their thoughtful comments,
feeling connection through cables and wires.
So I return daily to create,
a modern monk devoted to this peculiar ritual.
My thoughts materialize instantly,
available to any who care to indulge.
I write for the joy of writing,
sending poetry into the void
like a solitary prayer.
