What kind of writer am I
when I cannot even find the words
They slip past me, like feathers in the wind
feathers like paper, with the words I need to say
Maybe I'm not even human
Maybe I am a bird.

Perched inside, locked away
I am a bird in a cage

It is like this.
This is what I need to say.
I am a bird,
caged away
In a tree that reaches the clouds
So that I can see the free ones fly

With wings strong enough
to break their hold

When will my wings
be ready?

Of little paws,
innocent, precious ones
their spirit snatched. Gone.
Sold to the Chinese factories
The irony of the elephant.

They hunger for hides
for skins and bones, for coats.
Ignoring the blood
they burn plastic by the ocean -
will justice be so long to come?

A life in a cage
not a choice, taken by force
helpless and broken
how does it feel to melt
when polar ice caps are home?

In the beginning,
authority was given,
with responsibility
for ours is a gift, but why
do we throw Consciousness away?

Day after day
Late mornings
to midday tears
and late nights fears
nothing has changed.
The tree remains a whithered sapling.
It has been so long...
Why will you not grow?
When will you rise far above the dirt that chokes you?
When will you be green again,
When will you be happy again?
When will you bloom and bear the good fruit
that is good to eat?
WHEN WILL YOU BE A TREE?!

So it has come to this.
Have I gotten so lost?
Have I gone mad?
It's a tree.
I am talking to a tree.

You cannot tell a tree when to grow.
You cannot ask a tree questions
and expect answers.

A tree does not speak,
and it does not comprehend
my language.