Writer...To Be Or Not To Be Poem by Melissa Vitiello

I dreamt I was eating

a book.

It was made from 8' by 12' slabs

one inch deep.



It tasted luminous

like a cold caramel iced-coffee,

those costly ones from Starbucks

followed by the desire for a



Marlboro Red cigarette,

but with nothing to light it.

As I chewed, I began to think

that the creation of books, being



an author, wouldn't work out for me.

The idea tasted sweet, but I was lacking,

lacking something, perhaps the lighter

to get the cigarette burning.



As I looked around

others were reading

the same title

but the normal way.



Everyone one of them-

Cummings, Poe, Didion.

They began to notice me

and stare.



Made me feel out of place,

as if I weren't a writer, as if

I didn't belong. I didn't have a

lighter to light the cigarette.



I was in a bar though,

a fitting place to drink

and smoke

so I ordered Budweiser







and I kept on chewing.

I realized

I won't be a writer

cause I didn't have the



lighter to light the cigarette.

Words really weren't my forte,

as I always wished I had the flair,



or at least a thing of matches to spark

the cigarette.