Dry Heaves Buzz Fisher Sorry that I’m sorry that I don’t know who I should be sorry about about not being here. I’m surrounded here- yet alone in the crowd. Alone with my thoughts running rampant about her and her and her and her. None of them, I’m sure, having thoughts of me. Within the laughter that comes from every corner are the tears running inside me. To let them surface would be selfish and childish and pointless. Why be pointless and childish when pointless alone leaves a shred, just one shred perhaps, of pride? The words spew - vomit from my pen. To avoid dry heaves I engulf everything around me in hopes that I can achieve something solid at least. I hold to my pen as if grasping a toilet - spinning wildly out of control - I have no control. I pray for control - want nothing more. Yet it remains unattainable. I smile - can’t even control that. An incessant twitch controlled by madness. Madness - wonderful hollering and screaming. Sounds of twisted steel cars 75 miles per hour head on. Woman being killed. Child unattended. Noise in my head. In my world. But not beyond. Return to Creative Writing Page |
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