i still feel like my purpose is higher
than what i’m living now.
i’m supposed to be swinging in the breeze,
changing perspectives as a bird,
living in anemones.
how is that i have turned into a secondary color?
i’m more of a roadblock to human life,
my cycle is to serve, support, and help move on. be a learning experience, to help one grow.
i think my soul was put into the wrong vessel,
maybe i was supposed to be a tree (as my name suggests)
or a bird or fish.
or maybe something much more discreet like branches on a tree, or myelin from a mushroom (to help connect).
that’s me: in time, in reality, in relativity. in the womb, out the womb. i’m supposed to be woven into nature and out of sight, not supposed to be heard, behind the scene, hushed stage crew.
but then you try and take me and make me the star of your scene.
maybe that’s where i’m supposed to be, in space, in a star, or maybe a star. to burn out after years, and bloom again (like a flower, since stars and flowers and us are very alike.)
yeah that’s all i am, shades of colors and soft dust. star dust. distant yet so close.
if you love me and hold me, i’ll be okay if you leave me. for i am not supposed to be here.
I’m supposed to limpid, colorful, and skyey;
die in winter, born in spring.
That is supposed to be me (for eternity).
idk what to do by myself more than retail jobs, and office squares.
larger than 100 dollar bills, and greener than your new car.