I feel like an oxymoron.

I am put together
strangely, I contradict
myself- yet
I am all true.
Matter is not the matter at hand-
is not important
to a walking cliche.

I want to walk
and keep walking.

To go until turning back
would no more mean regret
than going forward now does.
I am not reversing a decision-
merely making one,
and I will repeat
this phrase with every
desert-dry step.

I think too much.

My thoughts pool
on my mind and seep
out to drift across my skin
oil dripped into puddles
as I lie on the freeway in the rain.
Rainbow-bright, sliding
washed and watershed from my body
in a few moments of drizzle;
I meld with the asphalt;
we are both free, in a way.

I feel like an oxymoron:
I want to run,
but I am draped across the highway
shivering in the autumn wet.