By: Dustin Correia
I think if I had a gun to my head, a knife in my back,
and butterflies fluttering in the depths of my stomach;
and given the choice of either having my tongue cut out
and speech forever impaired or losing my pen,
I wouldn’t have to think about it very long.
I’ll keep my pen.
My mind filter is broken
like one of those cheap coin dividers
that always seem to mix in the nickels with the quarters,
the pennies with the nickels,
and the dimes with everything else.
My thoughts fumble around like a large purse half-filled with loose change.
Every time I go to the liquor store to purchase a pack of smokes
I end up occupying the register and holding up
the ever increasing line of pissed-off patrons
for at least an hour while I sort through
the vast assortment of presidential
places and faces, in whom God we trust.
My English teacher professed to me the cold truth
to be a writer is to be alone.
I sat in class, spellbound,
the fate of middle earth lay solely in my little hobbit hands.
Is everyone in the world confused and I’m just crazy
or am I confused and we’re still all nuts?
If my eyes could project the truth behind desperate lies,
would it look something like this?
Bits and pieces confined to small print.
