I am nothing but a dried up bag of metaphors left on a bed waiting to decompose. An annoyance on the daily, a freak show by the night. One moment I’m crawling under you skin and the next I’m trying so desperately to crawl out of it. In and out back and forth dead and too alive. Draw them in and scream when the eraser won’t hit the page. Blinding rage. This age of knowledge and college has tolerated the hated, embraced the disgraced, colored the faded and tasted strength in prophecy. So I’m trying to write mine. I’m fine, give me time, let me cling to survive let me thrive in an atmosphere that must fear change. It numbs the pain before change slips into the brain I can’t stay. Passion arises in tides and it pulls back my shoulders it mulls me over and spits me out gasping for breath. What’s left. A sloppy wet bag of metaphors left on the sand. Take my hand, but I’m blind to the love that give s me a shove in the right direction and puts me in bed, I have bled. I cling to a bag of used metaphors collecting in my head.