I'm finding it harder
and harder to express my
emotions and that's what scares me
the most: that when I'm buried six feet under
—lifeless and still—I will just become a product,
the dirt and the dust of the rest of this mediocre coexistence.
The emotions I have yet to form into sculptures and arrays of
picturesque light-scapes will have disintegrated with me under
the weight of the dying roots of every tree that was meant
to grow but never had the chance to. And in that
moment, wherever I may reside, I will realize
I have become the metaphor for the
tree that never lived—
filled with life but
restricted from the
ever present sun
light behind the
rest of  a  l  l  the
other towering
oaks from down
the path. It will
not suffice; this
lack of emotion
will never suffice
for me. Yet if I am
meant to live, why
do I already feel dead?

gd