In the back of my grandpa's car my collection of stuff makes a mess. I laid back there under stars but the cold kept me up. Back and forth, home to home. One month earlier I was a painter and my mom was so proud. Portrait sits on a shelf, forgot I left it before I left town. There were roads I had to travel so I headed out. It's too late to recooperate it. That stupid painting. It shares the same fate as the one who drew it. Hang it up against others like it and its as empty as my grandpa's car on the hill. I have become such a sentimental person, but it's so easy to slip back into mushiness.. but maybe if i can unpack the car, then maybe i can learn how to paint again like a child without a song who can make his own rhythms. I don't need to be like this