My dad is a truck.
This truck never listens to the important things.
It doesn't start when you need it to, and it drives itself down life-threatening roads..
This truck has a red temper.
It doesn't play music; the radio is a numb static sound, which pierces the ears, digging deep.
On the interior way down in the heart, this truck has smooth leather seats, clean floor mats, spotless vinyl, and unbroken windows.
The outside of the truck is rusted and black; mud coats the tires.
There is no license plate, the windows appear broken.
It spurts dark exhaust out its rough muffler, revealing a dangerous and obviously numb side of my father...
