From a loaded gun mind,
Ricocheting against the skull
Of some thinker’s head.
Some thoughts are more heavily loaded than others,
And ricochet over and over again
So that they won’t be forgotten
Even once these thoughts cease ricocheting,
The bullet casings remain where they fall,
Littered amongst the casings of other thoughts.
Is not my mind smart enough
To know that littering is wrong?
Or is it simply some obsessive hoarder?
It’s a curse, really.
But with that curse may come magic,
For love and joy erupt from the same gun,
and the ricochets of those bullets
Are far more intense
Than any butterfly wings
Fluttering about one’s stomach.