Drive home across the underbelly of some black cloud formation.

Another storm to busy my windshield wipers with -

and I'm tired,

too tired to think,

or blink at the yellow lights

(how I run them)

down without a care

(or maybe a clue.)

The conclusion that I have

staring

down

at me is

frightening.

Black and blue

like the never-ending marks on my arms

(it could be a deadly disease mutating,

I could be dying in all actuality)

maybe I am.

maybe I'm not.

But I've

got an eight thousand dollar investment

(otherwise nicknamed education)

to back my theory up with -

the reality that I have no idea what I'm doing.

The busy fumble;

skyward

(backward tumble)

I feel kind of like I'm ganna throw up

but you take me out to dinner

on this

storm cloud Monday evening

to celebrate my good fortune

(depleting good mood!)

I feel like sleeping for a hundred years

(put me between the pages of that fairy-story,

I really wouldn't mind a palace,

or all that ivy

and thorns)

truth be told I'd rather work as a waitress for the rest of my life

(poor, if that's what you want to call it)

rather then sell myself

into a life

that I would

regret -

even if it is the Americana dream -

or the fact that I'm the first person in my family to graduate from college -

the knowledge I've gained

is trivial.

Creed

too greedy

to present my means with.

I'm not afraid of

dying with the pages filled up with thoughts -

sometimes I just want to speak,

even if what I say makes no sense -

and to have you not look at me like I'm some kind of

Gypsy Prophet

or

Mindless Idiot

(I am who I am -)

what I am,

just a girl in a uniform -

grass stains on my sneakers;

cats (like children and lovers)

to curl up with each night when the air gets too cold

to not burrow under the blankets.

I have some kind of outer shell

that sparkles

like glitter skin

that you touch,

and caress

(tender is my second middle name)

like Joy

(the one my mother gave me)

only this one you bestow graciously.

Simply complex

or the complexity is so simple that it melts at the bottom of your hand.

Between

your teeth,

I seek

to grow weak

and shelter.

I put on a great smile,

or great show

depending on how you look at it.

Maybe I want to live without living;

circle

and underline

the best parts and fabricate my memoir with ideals

(metaphor vs. reality)

the calamity of choosing between the two.

When I get home I'm still shaky -

I teeter from foot to foot and listen to the silence of all this sound.

Conclusion with the face of graduation

(slurping tongues

so agile

that they turn me fragile like gum

- c.h.e.w.e.d -

to it's tasteless centerfold)

after-life mint with a great warranty -

I've always needed a guarantee for something to make me jump ahead

(arms flailing into the "somewhat.")

I can't help but think about Jessica

(the where's and when's)

that's the shitiest part about death,

not knowing what could have happened had they lived

(or in her case thrived.)

I feel kind of like a weed in the mouth of a great sunrise

(a violation of balance)

or,

a walking dream asleep to the outcry -

nearly flunked out of high school

but graduates with Directors Honor Role at the top of her class -

she's going somewhere fast

(too fast for me maybe)

too much conclusion -

I'm better with weather,

storms come and go;

show their damage to be mended

(a girl good with her hands can fix things -

or people -

when she needs to)

but conclusions with no horizons are too unforeseeable.