Picking up the pieces of your life

after several head-on collisions

where paint, is scraped and cut

by other people’s rust

where you bend and hammer

your battered, insides

so your body looks new

even though, it was twisted and warped

by accidents.

If you finesse, your damaged self, no one will know, you are damaged

metal, beaten into place, and painted over

is a Classic car

that can rip through

modern machines

like tinfoil

And the heart of your car, must be studied

by your mechanical self

to decide, whether or not, it can be salvaged.

A Classic car, is a Classic

not because of the age it lived in

but the history

it experienced, like character

in the eyes of an old man.

You can’t make an old car new

You don’t want to

Buying a new car that looks like an old one, is not the same, as one loved and neglected, and then loved again.

There are so many people, who look at a Classic, and only see 1955

Not the years lived, up until the present moment

like a beautiful woman, under all her wrinkles.

Being born

does not define us

People admire beauty

they cringe at scars

they cringe at the truth

they don’t want to be reminded of life, and the death that will shortly follow

Why do people admire innocence?

Everyone is acting innocent, and wanting to be young again

they hide from who they have become

they want to forget their past

they want to become perfect

When we disappear, into nothing

we become, Something.

We have broken down

on the side of the road

overgrown by weeds.

Where we were headed, doesn’t matter

Your Classic

isn’t going anywhere

Your plans, a distant impossibility

the graveyard

will help you

to understand

your perfect lawn.

When the days become dark

you will fall asleep

and rest—

content,

not to do anything.