The Collector, by Samantha Vargas


They say fuck the man

but they don’t understand how tired I am

of green envy in the form of dollars

I holler

Spent, I scream and spit “fuck you” until I’m sick.

Rolling on the shower floor with matted hair between balled fists

I miss

the caring people, the loving people

The people who were people.

What has happened to the world?

Long gone are the days of friendly neighbors

Now replaced by self hating masturbators.

Here’s a toast to crippling college loans

And fake moans of orgasms never reached

I reach

for dreams unseen and continue to sing

not melody but harmony.

Harmonious functions of an inglorious junction

Of back breaking labor in a shit restaurant for shit tips.

Here’s a tip: don’t trust anyone who isn’t invested in it:

The dream, the unseen, the Sunday mornings with your old pop

And a simple sugared jelly doughnut.

Don’t trust anyone who is cruel to a dog.

The real dogs of the world have invisible tails

Tucked carefully between pale legs that have never seen the sun.

I’m on the run.

I’m sprinting for meaning in this grey town,

Blindly searching for a way out.

Call me a misanthropic romantic

Or a depressed lit fanatic

I write for an escape

I create

A world with heart

That ventures to say, “hey thanks for existing today”.

I’m writing a new society with happiness,

Gladness for a shot at being human on a magnificent planet


I’m thankful for the warmth of my one eyed cat

And dew on grass and suddenly

My mind is humming

Elevated not on green but meaning

I have more than an overdue check for twelve dollars and eight cents.

I’m a scarlet scribe, penning directions to the mountains

Where I can breathe the soul word


-Samantha Vargas