I don't know why we're created, but I know that I know why I'm dying

I'm an emotional driver. Anger just brawls through my system like no other time in my life, through hands clenched around the steering wheel, down feet and to the pavement. rushing faster, faster, faster, until that maddening, raging, heavy slow stop that happens just too fast. stuck. behind an ancient wood paneled station wagon. or toes jammed on the breaks to keep my silver p.o.s. from demolishing the precious little shits in the back seat of the hideous forrest green minivan. seatbelt rubbing at my collarbone, ever so slightly. They don't know. that every time it's a struggle to keep from pressing down harder on the right pedal instead of releasing. that every time the break is just a little bit more difficult to hold down. that sometimes i just want to see what happens. if i let everything go. pedals under the lead foot of fate. so...bam. front bumper ravaging through the temporary tag of that brand new escalade. glass shattering. fumes leaking. metal bending. snap of the seatbelt, forehead through windsheild. music still playing. bam.

Where the sunshine slows

you know that feeling where that space between your collar bone and kidneys aches uncontrollably? deep where it can't be reached,

bettered, or worsened,

because it's right already. the feeling that's brought on by finical sights, sounds, songs, smells, phrases, tastes? memories like tobacco smoke downtown in December five o'clock sunlight through the trees on the back road or McDonalds coffee, late in a 24-hour superstore after feeling the autumn albums bass beats push the ache through the bones in your shoulders and down with adrenaline to dehydrated fingers that feeling knows why every listens to the same songs in the fall and why they're still only ours as they flood through tinny speakers and out open windows away with the air it drives, and sings, studies and pushes forward and backward