I stand on the balcony
Of an expensive hotel
polished glass
Made beds
Champagne sitting eagerly on the table.
I look out beyond the polished glass
into the concrete jungle.
I tell myself,
Polished glass
should never
be mistaken to be non-existent
For there is an absence of wind.

You shouldn't expect
A tenderly raised shark
to not bite.
It might not abandon its instincts.

It's the most basic of principles
That takes the most reminding.

Yesterday is alive in my mind,
The actions I thought meaningful
bring me distress,
I try to repel those sour thoughts
along with the pink in my cheeks.

Is the immaturity of the days forgotten
Really like citrus?
For me to push them away by instinct
To pucker at what was driven by
arrogance but also confidence?

The days you despise never go away
The days you accept come to you
like a chick to its hen.

The warmth of cotton is felt,
When an intimate breeze threatens.
Dashes of clear
interrupt the sky.
And its warm palette mixes sombre.
It is sad to look yonder
But to that ball of blue
we lean to.
Because the rain invites warmth,
like how hatred invites love.
It is opposites that refresh.

I wish to sit by the weeping willow
And stare at the fields.
Listen to birdsong
and wear a crown of wildflowers.
Why do we have to live so terribly,
In the city?

But I will meet you under the weeping willow
And you, under the hard oak.
Let us braid our hair,
and live in a cottage.
admiring the sombre hues
and the glowing Northern lights.

Because we are poets.
And we live up here.

Just like the shore isn't the sea,
What if my mind isn't me?
The personality I unleash,
and the thoughts that I think
are as different as gas and grease.

But what if my mind
is me.
But is pushed aside,
along with its opinions
its thoughts
To be the cause of those smiles,
and pleasure felt around me.

No wonder I,
am so different from me.
The calf that tries to be the sheep,
would be still be the calf
when behind the fence.

And that's enough.

Do plants thank the clouds.

Do plants thank the clouds for rain?
For their self-sacrifice,
and selfless choice,
to diminish themselves to let the other thrive?
For the strangling and decomposing of the very essence that makes their matter,
So that a plant could use it to flourish.

We walk through a garden of flowers,
but fail to realise the pain behind the beauty,
the death behind the result.
Do plants thank the clouds for rain?
Do plants thank the clouds for not their tears, but blood?
And for the decision not to live again?
Do plants thank the clouds?