I lay on the ground,
watching the leaves shake above me.
It smells damp.
Society is cruel and unaccepting,
but if you lay in the forest long enough,
The moss and fungi will accept you.
I find comfort in the fact.
I will lay here now
and I wish to be put here when I'm gone,
I want to live on as a part
of this infinitely connected family.
I want flowers to grow in my lungs
replacing the air,
I want my ribs to be wrapped in vines,
I want fungi to grow
where my thoughts used to be,
I want my heart to be taken
and be put to better use.
I wish to be there when I’m gone.
I feel this strange longing for things that don’t exist,
a strange aversion to society,
to normalcy,
to reality.
I want to disappear,
to become something more than I am.
I want to take off
these suffocating plastic bindings
on my feet
and place my skin on the moist moss
of the forest floor.
I want to play in the river
and be surrounded by greens and blues and browns,
not beige
and eggshell
and sterile white.
I want to breathe the smell of pine cones and rain,
not strawberry summer paradise or mahogany teakwood vanilla.
There’s something deep inside of me,
engraved on the lining of my heart,
burned into my lungs,
drawn out through my veins,
that yearns for something more than ordinary.
Part of me cannot believe that this is it,
that I’m confined to this mortal plane,
that books are the closest I’ll ever get
to an escape.
Apr 1
Apr 1, 2026 at 12:43 PM UTC
I lay on the ground,
watching the leaves shake above me.
It smells damp.
Society is cruel and unaccepting,
but if you lay in the forest long enough,
The moss and fungi will accept you.
I find comfort in the fact.
I will lay here now
and I wish to be put here when I'm gone,
I want to live on as a part
of this infinitely connected family.
I want flowers to grow in my lungs
replacing the air,
I want my ribs to be wrapped in vines,
I want fungi to grow
where my thoughts used to be,
I want my heart to be taken
and be put to better use.
I wish to be there when I’m gone.
I feel this strange longing for things that don’t exist,
a strange aversion to society,
to normalcy,
to reality.
I want to disappear,
to become something more than I am.
I want to take off
these suffocating plastic bindings
on my feet
and place my skin on the moist moss
of the forest floor.
I want to play in the river
and be surrounded by greens and blues and browns,
not beige
and eggshell
and sterile white.
I want to breathe the smell of pine cones and rain,
not strawberry summer paradise or mahogany teakwood vanilla.
There’s something deep inside of me,
engraved on the lining of my heart,
burned into my lungs,
drawn out through my veins,
that yearns for something more than ordinary.
Part of me cannot believe that this is it,
that I’m confined to this mortal plane,
that books are the closest I’ll ever get
to an escape.
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