Fingers don’t forget the dance,
they just get stiff
when interpreting thought,
words waiting
to join the world.
All that is needed is there
but all that they know to do
is push buttons and see effects
in navigating the impasse.

Poetry is something,
but it doesn’t settle the storytelling itch.
If anything, it serves as a vent
for creative energies,
a place for novel ideas
to escape a day’s crush,
but a crown it does not wear.

These fingers know the truth,
the epic in the mind.
They know it only unfolds
a thousand words at a time,
so for hours they’ll pace the keyboard
building words later scrapped
for being too weak
to hold the towering dream.

The daily thousand hiding
as a dam between synapses
once used well.
They block fruition
by disguising themselves
as raw negativity.

These fingers
and the characters they give life to
cry in their stagnancy.
Idle, they become depression,
they are restelessness,
Today’s thousand,
like ants working together,
push against the trigger.
Yesterday’s thousand
pulled the hammer back
and the day before,
put gun to temple.

But the fingers fought
and brought
the mind aboard.
They saw
there is no life
without their dance
and if a few steps are out of place,
movement is movement,
they’ll be righted
when the music plays again.

And the daily thousand fell,
a thousand words hit the page,
the story started rolling again.
Today may be random luck.
Tomorrow will be dedication,
the days after, progress.
And the progress will be peacefulness.