you are a permanent ink
and I cannot seem to get my fingers clean
no one will shake hands with me
they are afraid of the things
that I wear on my sleeve

I am always arguing semantics
with strangers on the street
staring at the people in the park
plucking the leaves from a living tree
I want to furiously say something
but I just let them be
the leaves will grow back eventually
and maybe that couple will fail
and that living relationship forgets how to breathe
from the outside karma is amusing
boredom has led me to a road dark and eerie
and I am not fearing any reaper reaping
welcome to my life
irony
I am the reaper
reaping the ever growing seeds
that I always tend to plant near spring
never prepared for the yield
the end of summer brings
left with the weight of everything
I feed myself until I have only one option
to explode all that I am
through any medium
other people can see
or hear
or read

I signed my name backwards
on you in your sleep
with permanent ink
when you look in the mirror
you will remember me
and be forced to walk around
with your own pocket full of seeds