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woe is me
why do I run, from the things I love the most?
why do the things I love the most let go so easily?
the closer I get, the further I run away
I'm in the tree, stumped
I can't say a word,
I haven't got one to say
I wonder if they hear the sighing wind whisking all around me..
leaves fall to the ground, without a sound
the sun vacates the rusting plane as the
clouds take the throne and control the weeping sky
drenched in sorrow, I descend down the jagged bark
and creep into an unfamiliar hole in the earth
there I pick at my grotesque lesions screaming my woe
what do they care? what do they know?
I hear a grumbling down below
my stomach hungers for tranquility
once a blanket of dirt, now a pool of mud
covers my withering body, warding off the demons of the night
I've planted myself in the earth's crust
and impatiently ponder if I'll ever bloom
What do you assume?
