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Habit

I stare at the glowing computer screen

Just stare

Because nothing I can think of

Seems to make sense

Though nothing really ever does

And when I think about

The words that rattle around

The abyss of some authors habit

I wonder aloud

If they know just what they’re saying

Or if they make it up on the spot

Because it sounds nice

Because they have a deadline

And I wonder if when they have a deadline

Then that means that the driving beat

Of their creative heart

Has gone flat

Killed by the abstraction of time

That they will follow as zombies

I think about this while

I procrastinate

While my typing is at a stand-still

Because my hands are busy scratching

Poison-ivy scars from last month

That don’t itch

But only because it’s a habit