My trees have personalities
I know I must be going
a little crazy.

The dog wood howls at the moon

The Waxmertyl craves the river

The Monterey Pine flourishes
It'll know me when I die.

The Cybress is a youngin
Not quite sure

Under the plum tree many times I've cried
for all of the innocence inside.

The Elder Berry has an identity crisis
Doesn't know if it's a bush
Or a tree.

I'm not saying their trying to talk to me
And I'm not saying I'm trying to talk to them
I'm just saying
We're all here
Just trying to be.

She was every kind of beautiful
  that ever was or ever will be.
  More so because she didn't care.
  We floated above the noise
  just us two in bed stars in our eyes
  consuming us numb to all else.

  Jealousy clawed its way back
  into my heart. It always does.
  It ruined every love I ever had.
  I'm old and still don't understand.
  I fear lust's sting. Green eyed
  monster always in the wings.

She lived on
the outskirts of sanity,
took up jogging
to outrun the rush
of other voices,
burned a sick day
organizing her own criticisms,
shaved her legs and edges
for practice sake,
trimmed her disorders
as "normal" girls do,
bought a fancy dress
to envy but never wear,
made marks on the calendar
to believe she had places to be,
like the local
coffee shop,
where they serve
a favorite flavor,
somewhat stable,
somewhat frenzy.