You have, by modest estimate,
112 felt tips pens in this room alone.
God knows how many you have squirrled away downstairs.
And yet?
That one is too stubby. This one is too thick.
That one is too skinny. None can do the trick.

You are certain telling me, quite certain there is one-
To drag and draws your words down fine,
To finish up the job.

But the Micron tip's not straight.
The Razor's ink's too fast.
You tell me this is hopeless
You beg me to give up.

A movie maybe, some coffee? Yes.
Anything but this,
Insufferable, impossible,
Here spinning upside-down--

With everything you need but still
Just cannot seem to do,
The devil in the choosing
If you let him speak to you

So? I think-
What matter has it of the ink,
The slanting of your lines?
The ether's in the words themselves
Not in the blacks or blues
The magic is the act of it
The fear is just the truth

Truth is then ten minutes here
Your head bent to the screen,
You're Listing all the wrongs you've got,
Instead of writing down the rights
Stop fighting this and pick your tool--
Imperfect, perfectly.