Re: Spitfires Poems
this so called 'box' we type in
is as big as big can be
there are no sides around it
it's universe you see
and as I speak out loud to screen
it 'types' for me my hidden themes
my thoughts spring out spontaneous
is this for real or just concussed?
I watch my fingers everyday
and they are withering away
The thumbs recedes at faster pace
Soon no longer human race?