Clicks of the keys
pressed with the fury
of flying fingers,
creating words and
ideas and
scenes and
characters.
The fingers can create;
the fingers can speak.
And what will they create today?
A damp, drafty, and dark
warehouse.
The scent of fired gunpowder
mixed with the sight of
freshly spilled blood.
In the hand
a sizzling gun
smoke swirling out
from the barrel.
The holder,
a beautiful Israeli woman,
with olive-toned skin
and soft
flowing hair.
Ziva…Lisa…
New scene:
Ear-splitting
music pouring out.
The woman in black,
her raven hair spilling
down her shoulders,
entrapped by two
holders on either side
of her head.
Tattoos
decorating pale,
white skin.
Abby…Amy…
Cold storage
of steel.
Blaring lights,
rambling stories,
bumbling assistant.
Ducky and Jimmy…
Or Birdie and Pimmy?
Probie!
Elf Lord!
McGeek!
McGoo!
Probie Wan Kenobi!
No…
Shred…
New piece of
stark white
paper, naked
waiting to be
stained with
ink blotted
letters.
New scene…
New story to be told…
The squad room,
crumpled sheets of
paper fly, hitting
their mark with annoying
accuracy.
Ignore the papers;
concentrate on work.
"Tony!"
No…"Tommy!"
"Yes, boss!"
Slap!…resonates as
it comes into contact
with his head.
A smile of satisfaction…
Gibbs…no, Tibbs…
Scene:
Apartment…
Alone…
Music and clicking
of keys, the only
sounds to fill the
deafening silence.
Just me.
AN: This was my first real attempt at poetry. Though it's not my strongest suit, I quite enjoyed writing this!