dont go away mad girl, just go away.

oh, shit. my mind is chasing after sentences. created by words. through metal, wires, and plastic created to fit in my lap. my fingers tips are fumbling blindly. for letters, numbers, and punctuation to keep in touch with what my mind is telling my mouth mumble out. the only problem with that is that. my mouth is filled with spoonfuls of grape nuts, fresh blueberries, raspberries, and organic vanilla soymilk. my hands are obliged to play such a leading role in the satisfying of my palette but for some odd reason they can not keep their sweaty palms off of the implication of owning a fire arm. nothing so arrogant and bulky as say. a rifle or a shotgun. but something not lacking class and presence. one that will fit snug in the left breast pocket of my tweed sports coat. an instrument that grips to my closed hand as a firm handshake to instill in me a feeling of trust and power. with my index finger i will tease her smooth and warm trigger and whisper sweet nothings in her ear. just as i would of any object of my affection. but this one would be different. she would answer back to me with a calm and sincere tone. reminding me again who it is that has the upper hand. i would call her. charity. and keep her in my pocket.