Manual typewriter, yellowed sheets of paper and black gunpowder.
Alone in my cabin,
I transfer feelings onto a sheet of paper,
A melting pot of letters, mixed up, jumbled across the page.
My typewriter hears- the words I do not say.
It knows- my fears, my frustrations.
It has typed for the world- my Manifesto
And still they laugh at it.
They laugh at me.
And I, the man in the hooded sweatshirt and sunglasses,
Laugh back.
