In stories, things end neatly. Everything is ******* with the ribbon of the last sentence.
But things do not end neatly. There is only one story, with almost-endings and sort-of beginnings of words and characters, and there is always another page to turn. There is always another and then.

Rage is a good thing.
It is not anger-anger is a child demanding candy and throwing a tantrum when it is not given to them, A man who is in power of the country screaming when he is told killing is wrong, Someone who is rejected from an art school and decides to geneocide those with less power.
Anger is annoyance and entitlement blown to gigantic size.
Rage is just.
Without rage, without rising up, nothing changes, and those in power pat themselves on the back.
It says:
What has been done to me, to others, to us is unacceptable. This is unjust, and I will not stand for it.
Rage is not petty. They call our rage petty, and demean us. They say that we are just naturally like this, as though they are not the ones hurting us until we have no choice but to be. They say we just don’t know any better, as if we are not both intelligent and correct.
This is wrong.
Rage keeps us from getting hurt again.

The uninspired poet begins to write.
After just one letter is typed, the uninspired poet stops.
They have no idea what they want to say.
They know they want to write something meaningful, but cannot find the words.
They stand up, and go to their bookshelf.
The uninspired poet finds a passage that sticks out in an old story.
They look at more stories, and find more passages.
The poet is uninspired, but perhaps they can borrow a few words,
And in combining the words in novel ways, make them into something original.

It calls to you across the parking lot, past the shorting-out street lamps and the trees.
You ask your friend if he hears screaming. He does not.
You need to make a choice. Fall together or break apart?
You know exactly what will happen if you stay put- nothing at all,just the same few weeks of work and dishes and sleepless nights and not being able to even tell if your eyes are closed because you know exactly what will happen next.
You know and do not know what will happen if you follow it.
It beckons.
You both do not care at all and care immensely about your current life.
You both care and do not care about the consequences.
You are a creature of many parts, and you need to make a choice sometime soon.
They’ll be waiting.

You ever just eat a piece of chocolate and suddenly realise
They never loved you
And you don’t know what you’re doing with your life?
Do you ever just look out the window on a beautiful day
And want to disappear, and not spoil the morning’s beauty?
Ever walk your dog and wonder if everyone knows you’re a pretender?
Have you ever been reading a book and think maybe you should get help?
Ever been feeding the birds and notice maybe you aren’t a waste of space?

I don’t collect rocks, nor art, nor broken pencils(though I come close.)
I collect things.
They can’t break all of you if they don’t know what to break.
They can’t take everything away if it is truly everything,from the piece of lint on the floor to the sticks and dead leaves and dirt stuck in my shoes to the bedroom wall with the paint chipping off to the leaky faucet i always say i’ll get around to fixing but never will,to the windows that haven’t been opened in so long they might as well be completely covered in spiderwebs to the ceiling that’s actually okay to the sky.

The leaves are falling.
so am I.