A Collector's Collection

Would it be alright if I just took a step out into the rain, and kept on walking? Down a path never tread by me before? I'd let the storms soak through my brain and bleach my skull. Would anybody follow?

I'm tired of this, and that, and everything in between. These aren't mine, they are their own. How silly is it that I answer to other people for little more than warmth. A conscience is useless and can draw people further away. A string can push others closer. A motor car can leave all its windows open and let the sun in through the roof.

But why, why, why? I have words to say that get stuck in my mouth, like peanut butter crackers. The words won't be swallowed but can't be spit out either. I think I know I believe that in my opinion there is something I have to say. It's three bloody words, more difficult to conquer than an empire or a queen wearing a blue, but bloody, dress.

Oh who, who out there believes they can analyze the author's intent when there was no intent at all? Literature is meant to be enjoyed, whether the joy is derived from the meter, the rhymes, or the meaning behind it all. Take a dark shaft, borne of light, and make it into a spear of carbon. Let it fall to pieces as it falls to the ground and shatters as it's stepped on.

Don't bother to come back.

No. Shut up.

I live, for what, I don't know.

Yes. Shut up.

Ha, maybe the trouble is true.
Maybe even worth it.

I do, I do, I do, on that day of grain showers not in grain silos.

I love you.

Golden Moss

Down in the ditch by a road from from the highway, lay a tractor that had once pulled promises. Its gear shift was bent out of place, and the steering wheel was entirely missing. The old red coat was wrinkled and aged, sunburnt and covered in rust that looked like golden moss. Inside lived jokes and harlequins, making their homes in the muffler and gas tank. They would come out smelling of diesel and romance, of sweat and songs, and it would be obvious in their eyes that they did not know that babies grew only to die. In the mud their toes would wriggle and get cleaner, and in the rain their hair would get shorter, simpler, and brown. However, the sun shines upon this dreary scene with rays of beauty and prose, and the tractor doesn't seem to mind at all.