I am the letter “Q” on a hardly used typewriter, printed and crisp,
Gathering dust with each minute,
Smelling of musty ink and old moth balls,
Dehydrating because squishy finger pads seldom push on me,
Staring up at the cold, hard case that entombs me like a coffin.

I am the letter “Q” on a hardly used typewriter,
Hidden from the other letters in a corner,
Depending on the letter “U” to make my words shine through, though resentfully,
Listening as the popular vowels make fun of the outcast I am,
Sniffling sadly as the “Wheel of Fortune” stars R, S, T, L, N, and E giggle at the vowels’ comments.

Ringing silence of numbers that never say anything to me breaks my heart,
Clicks sounding, clacks surrounding, but my own are hardly ever heard,
So I sound as a sad ballad with the many rests in between my clicks,
Bells ringing, chimes dinging, as an end of a sentence draws near,
With no Q, with no me.

I am the letter “Q” on a hardly used typewriter, branded and forlorn,
Exhaling noisily one last time to defeat my self-pity,
Because I am the letter “Q” on a hardly used typewriter,
And that is who I am meant to be.