Mr broken metaphor

It’s clean.
It’s all so clean!
Hell! It’s even pristine.
Take a look around and you’ll see what I mean…

My hands aren’t grubby,
Pencil’s still sharp, it’s not stubby,

All my pens still work (guess that’s a perk)
All my notebooks are chubby with blank pages that for ages
Have sat waiting for a sage to engage them with words.

I say I’m an amateur writer,
A vocabulary fighter,
Midnight nail-biter…
Yet I write and I write and there’s nothing to sight from it,
No hand-written sprites of it…
There’s just kilobytes of it.

So it’s clean.
My workspace is so clean.
Hell! It’s even pristine.

I’ve never spilled ink to convey what I think,
I’ve only spilled ink when I didn’t think
And bit the end off a pen and had to run to the sink
To remove splotches and blotches staining me blue or pink.

I can wield a pen,
Now and then for forms,
You know the norm.
But the pen’s not where I go
When I want the words to flow,
My thoughts to grow and glow and sew together.

I turn to the keys.
    The QWERTY squeeze.
“Tapping the keys” just doesn’t please the ear
when
    “spilled ink”
is what you want to hear.

So here I am raw,
On the floor imploring you to forgive me when I ignore
The hypocrisy of what I claim to be.
I write…
            sure but there’s more…
                                            I write with a broken metaphor.