If I were a glass jar
I would overflow with a shyness
Such a shyness that stunts my growth
Blocking the sun never letting me blossom
From the tiny seed I am,
Into a large oak tree that towers over the shyness
Like a cockroach never dying always dismaying
I will always remain the tiny seed inside that glass jar
Until the seed dehydrates into death
And the jar shatters

Oh how I see it
When the sun kisses the land before going to bed
Oh how I hear it
When the birds sing their sweet melody entrancing the peace
Oh how I feel it
When the snow makes the hair on my skin nervous
Oh how I smell it
When the ink dries itself off on paper
Oh how I taste it
When the cinnamon bun melts the icy icing on its skin
But yet I refuse to believe in it