Baby, I’m an Arsonist
by Dustin Triplett
Doodling oak trees, dreams,
a pen’s empty attempts
to put ambition to paper.
You think, only to forget
stirring up desire from broken windows.
No longer tethered by deceit,
you’ll go far, beyond borders,
as adolescent soullessness grows worn.
Motivation, dry as the bourbon river,
an eroded liver’s lapse of resolution.
From the wayside, pick yourself up.
Strike the match, set it off,
and watch the fire smolder.