Or Paper Airplanes?

Misshapen irregularities regulate my view.
If all the things I write about aren't real,
Then what the hell am I doing? Sitting here,
Facing myself inside these four quiet walls
Standing like judges of the courtroom,
Silencing everything I think to write.

A blank screen; a battlefield for a thousand words
Against one man; Jesus, they're beating me
To a pulp again tonight.

If I knew better
I would put the pen in the drawer,
And make paper airplanes instead.
I'm a stubborn son of a bitch I guess,
Cause even with no life to write,
No glints of death, no red comet dust,
I still put this thing to work
Like it works me instead.

C.A. Dominick, born in rural Iowa, moved to
southern Missouri and has lived since for
nineteen years. Prone to spending my nights
boxed inside my little room staring at a
blank white screen, until the words start
dancing on that lovely e-lectronic paper.
Smoke, booze and soul are all I've got.

2006 Underground Voices