BLANK CLEAN WHITE SHEET OF PAPER YOU THINK YOU’RE
BETTER REMEMBER YOU’RE NOTHING BUT AN OLD TREE,
WHO’S BEEN PUSHED AROUND A LOT BY OTHERS BUT
I THINK IT’S BETTER TO BE AN OLD TREE, ACTUALLY…

MAYBE THE COPY PAPER STANDS OUT BETTER IN A FOREST
FULL OF WRINKLED BARK, BUT IT’S STILL A COPY. OTHERS MIGHT SAY:
“WHO CARES IF IT’S A COPY LOOK AT IT IT IS SO **** CLEAN AND PERECT”
BUT **** THOSE OTHERS, THEY’VE PROBABLY NEVER CRIED IN A BATHROOM

YOU AND I BOTH KNOW IT’S MUCH MORE BEAUTIFUL TO HUG ASYMMETRICAL
THERE’S ALWAYS A SPACE TO FILL AND THE LINES ARE LANDMARKS OF LIVING
PEELING BARK TELLS MUCH BETTER STORIES THAN A FLAT DULL SHEET
IF YOU THINK ABOUT IT NOBODY COUNTS TREES BY HOW MANY RINGS IT HASN’T,

THE BEST PART ABOUT THE BRANCHES IS THEY’RE NEVER THE EXACT SAME
that way every single leaf falls somewhere new.

When my father was young he mowed lawns for money. He pushed a second-hand spinning blade in the hot Florida sun for spare change.

With dull coins clanging in his pocket and crumpled bills in his palm, my father fought to escape home.

To him, home was synonymous with scary southern suburbia, where late-night television  was replaced with screaming matches and loud fists. Angry eyes with children's cries. Barbecues bombarded with apologetic looks from neighbors. Pretending not to hear shatters and shouts of supposed 'baseball black eyes'.

And so he pushed. Pushed the rusty lawn mower down strangers' yards, pushed away the sniggering snot-nosed kids calling him '****', and pushed at his father's demons, crawling down his spine, whispering that he was no good.

Years later he kept pushing
Pushing
Pushing
Pushing towards whatever came next. Yet no matter how much he pushed, he was still the same boy with the lawn mower. Angry, mad, pushing violently ahead.

The smoke of sanity is inhaled now, as my father's blood-shot eyes try to suppress the angry boy within. The residue of stolen innocence is not left unnoticed. A touch of tone on his once sunburnt neck and the man he has made instantly flushes away, leaving his father's demons. Calmer than before, a dying star, burning bright before collapse.

Like a strong jaw, his father's anger is passed down to him, and I, his son, am now born with this seed of destruction. Smaller than before, but still seething.

Constantly reminded, I sit in a leather chair surrounded by white walls in carefully controlled climate, plastic pen perched on my palm, I push.

I'll keep pushing.