All Is Lost
Sick, sick, sick
I must be sick,
subjecting myself to
this level of frustration.
Hours of work at
this monster they
call a computer -
type, edit, cut, paste ,
thoughts aside in italics,
line breaks scrutinized.
This needs changing,
take that line out,
add this pithy phrase
for clarification.
Finally, it's as near
perfect as I can make it,
lean back and sigh,
admire the finished draft.
Just space the whole thing
a tad to the right.
NO! NO! Quick
as a lightning flash,
blank page appears.
where is it?
Can't get it back -
X*#0?*#X*@#
Copyright © Cona Adams | Year Posted 2014
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