Truthtelling and Typewriters

There are times I miss my old typewriter,
that relic from the fifties, green and heavy,
its manual keys that thrived on abuse
on the hard pounding that emotion brings,
leaving your intensity on paper,
marked in the darkness of ink,
the sheer work of it, muscles in my fingers
from the physical push push push of keys
deep into the machine.

I still type hard.
Each year or so I have to buy a new keyboard,
the tiny springs of the computer surrendering
to my old school passion, still shown
in how, not just what, I write.
But not on the paper.

First of all, there is no paper,
just an impartial screen, convenient perhaps,
but unable to tell the whole story,
the difference between a tale well told
or a moment of madness. They look the same,
sprung keys not withstanding.