It began as a soft hum, whirring.
Before growing in intensity.
Now the lines are blurring,
and it will never set me free.
Tapping away in a darkly room,
or bleeding ink in summertime.
I didn’t know, it would be so soon
that the ink would take what’s mine.
Call it what you will: serendipity,
a growing itch you cannot scratch,
or just an increasing urgency.
It’s no longer the bug to catch.
I gave my flesh to toil long ago,
sold my soul to a printing press.
I’ll give my bones anon, although,
they’ll not lighten the duress.
What else, must this itch fulfil?
Only time will tell.
When you’ve taken up the quill,
you’ll give all you are to the inkwell.