when will I be free from these thick iron chains?
the ones that keep me here in a cell
that's much too small for my aching limbs
I am a starving, dying tree.
my thoughts fill up this void and make it hard to breathe,
drowning in a thousand words of my own creation
no one around to hear
after all, the tree in the forest did fall, the noise crashing across the forest

plunge your hands into wet concrete
until the world hardens around you
your fruits have withered
in the unforgiving august sun
heavy doors that were painted bright colors
they creak now, the wood wrapped and rotting
time watches its creations die
the soft spring breeze is a long forgotten dream of yesterday
did you even truly experience it when it was here?
was it a small blister of wind that aired out your cozy home,
or was it a furious, howling storm that crashed through the abandoned frame of a house you used to call your own?

you old soul,
your shy and knobby little fingers yearn for the sky
yet just barely reach the rotting corners of a building neglected,
a transparent grace of knowledge and long forgotten words of those who are passed on.
a leaf that sinks just like the hearts of those that pass by,
day after day after day
yet you cast your thick and lonely shadows onto those who are none the wiser
never realizing the wisdom and power you hold
oh, if only your roots became strong legs,
allowing you to leave behind the never-changing prison of dirt and worms and decomposing bodies of the insects that earn a single day of life and nothing more.
what have you seen, oh silent giant of the forest?
where might your mouth be,
so that I may listen to all your hushed secrets?
I'll never know
perhaps that's what you wanted all along,
to watch and listen for centuries.
until death do us part,
keep your knowledge a secret, just as you always have,
you mighty elm beast.

The doorway to your thoughts is thought of to be your eyes
If you gaze into them in the just the right way you can see swirling emotions held back behind fragile glass
But mine?
A concrete blockade, unable to be opened
Even i had not visited the darkest parts of my mind in what seemed like centuries
So i’d never really worried about the tension of my emotions, how they pressed against the wrought-iron gates to my soul
Threatening to wrench it open to escape and wreak havoc throughout all aspects of my simple life

That’s before i started seeing Her
Dr. Ramsey
The first time those cold gray eyes locked with mine in the plain office i felt myself retract inside my brain without really intending to do so
“Tell me about your childhood”
A storm was picking up, not outside but inside my skull
I stammered, trying to grasp for really anything i could tell this stiff woman with the impeccable posture, anything she could possibly interpret for me
The wind was rough, i could guess around 40 miles per hour at the very least
Angry thunderclouds loomed in the distance, stifling me with their roar of hatred
My heart hammered, every thump creating microscopic cracks against the inside of my ribcage
Through the high-pitched cry of the wind and the cracks of lightning, i heard my own voice.
“It’s now or never”

And with that the concrete melted away into a disgusting blackened liquid
Flowing out of my chest
Years of pent up rage and anguish poured out from every orifice,
My mouth a terrible tsunami of hateful words and pained cries
And just like that
It ended
Finally over
I took a shaking breath, glancing over at the therapist
I’m not sure what i expected to see, maybe her cowering from my outburst or at the very least having some sort of expression on her face
Instead she nodded slowly, scrawling down a quick note on her clipboard
“I commend you for taking this first step by yourself. It’s certainly not easy to admit you need help and to actively search for it.”
My chest felt empty, but in a good way
To be completely frank, it felt nice to not have the heavy burden of my pain constantly on my shoulders anymore.

the church is burning
a holy house for a vague man with powerful hands
erupting into flames, the sheer intensity of the heat scorching faces and hands
"step back children, for you may just end up like the building itself."
the wood had already rotted from the inside, much like the ones who had been 'born again' under the judgmental gaze of the wrinkled pastor
his eyes would scrutinize the thinning crowd during every sunday sermon
quietly critiquing and taking shrewd mental notes of which patrons were not listening quite as intently as he'd like...
it was the powerful judgments that only a broken and flawed man could have made
the flames lapped at every bit of worn out pine and oak beams
uncomfortable memories of the stifling hot summers and freezing winters, how it sounded when the lone man across the room cleared his throat loudly during the mandatory silence,
they were all lost to the void of time along with the countless holy books and objects inside the cramped and mildew-stained back rooms
my.... it was isolating
this was the house of the LORD, YAHWEH, whatever name you may call the creator that created destruction
yet there was no inclination to sadness, just a sense of loss for something that had always been there yet you'd never thought about in detail before
but alas
the church is burning
and nobody cares

the way your lungs expand and contract
one heaving breath after another,
means you're alive
and that you're still here for me
despite it being selfish,
i'm glad you stayed

the puppet’s string are made from nylon
scratchy and seeming thirsty for your spare red blood cells,
clawing at your tissue paper skin for the tiniest taste
of the life flowing through your veins
yet these monstrous lengths of twine are for the manipulation of the puppet’s creaky wooden joints.
the old oak tree that lies at its heart
yearns to reach for the sky again
slowly twisting its gnarled knuckles closer and closer to the clouds of heaven.
instead this mighty wood beast of the forest has been turned into a jester
for a courtroom full of sickly child-kings and queens
but alas, he is So Entertaining
condemned to forever dance at the hands of the old man, whose skin was not as firm and whose mind was not as sharp as twenty years prior
Father Time steals minutes and stretches them into decades like a tired *** of putty
decades where this poor puppet will rot, thrown out and discarded
“existence is a prison,” his last thought as the ***** red velvet curtains closed
to a cacophony of children’s cheers and hollers