Busy fingers, empty brain

My fingers move but my mind is blank.

So I’m not sure what’s coming out.

Where does it all come from, anyway.

Inspiration.

The thinks we write.

The things we say.

Because wherever it comes from,

I think mine is broken.

The box in my brain.

Where new things are made.

Is broken.

I think.

Probably.

Maybe.

So my mind is blank.

But my fingers still move.

Still type the nothings I have to say right now.

Because of the broken box.

My hand moves to the mouse.

I press publish.

Before reading.

What my fingers have made.

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