I haven't written poetry in a while, but my creative writing class demands it, so I'm trying to get the kinks out of my system. I'll post everything except my class works here, since I don't want my teacher to do an internet search and get the wrong idea.
In days where fingers can take you anywhere,
I question the purpose of a page.
Thin and cold and fragile,
Its surface could be overthrown any moment
By the warm, familiar hum
Of a hard drive.
Until fingers burn for the sharp edges
Of something solid
And, leaning back, minds whirl with
The need for cool parchment.
Words that never shift or change or edit
Without a hint of remorse.
And oneword: penny
Pennies for thoughts. The idle shrinkage of original ideas, and we think creative plans can be stolen for pennies. It's true. Poe sold his Raven for fourteen dollars. Pennies. Pure originality pawned off for a couple days of full bellies.