I Speak Hillbilly Actually

Can you speak Dutch? No. Spanish? Sorry. French? Does petite, French toast and croissant count? I am amazed at people who have mastered more than one language. I have not mastered this one. I do not know this until I open A dictionary, encyclopedia, or Thesaurus. Then I am not confident I can even reply I speak English. I speak hillbilly. I am pretty confident in saying this actually. Today I am writing like mad, fast and furiously, As if I do not get it down fast enough, it might disappear Like millions of other ideas, which vanished quickly Ideas that never made their rounds again – not in my head at least. My hands are on fire. It is weird that they care not at all What I have to say, choosing instead to take direction From one inside with whom I am not fully in contact. I enjoy watching them click against the keys. The c and the v key are both wiped clean by my frantic Fingertips, who use them constantly for cut and paste. I am hanging on barely, trying to retain a bit of identity, Smiling at my hands, who click frantically without conscious urging. The perils of being at the mercy of an imagination that Says “stand back and get out of my way.” No longer caring, as it truly Does work for me.