Her notebook is paper.

Lined and college-ruled

And three hole punched

Inked lines in

Scribbled penmanship,

Her hand scribes her thoughts

In drags, scratches, and dots

As she squeezes the tip of a

Promotional ball-point pen

The kind that clicks it's tip out.

She meshes the

Inorganic against organic,

Ink filling a small percentage

Of an empty space to the end

And then the back of a page

And then on to the next,

With the weight of her words

My notebook is electronic,

Digital dabbling,
Open a program that will

Process my words for me,

Processed, my words are

PROCESSED.

Canned and bottled into nice

Block Arial lettering,

Neat and legible;

A perfectionist's wet dream.

Errors underlined in red squiggle

No lines, perfectly invisible lines

Ones that automatically capitalize

As I my fingers press the keys they know

As I communicate through a pushing of buttons

The screen glows bright snow white

With the weight of my words