There is a man,

Tied up

Letterers in the background,

The foreground,

All around,

                                         They surround him.

                                             Blindfolded on a typewriter,

                                        Forced to write

                                           Not what he believes

                                           Not what he wants,

Though he writes

Blinded by another’s thoughts.

The writing,

The letters,

They consume him

                                           He struggles to see a way out,

                                          Though he can’t see,

                                       Blindfolded,

                                        He writes.

A continuous spiral

Never ending,

Corrupted by thoughts that aren’t his.

                                       There is a man,

                                       Tied up

                                        Always writing.