My roots aren't here
They never were
I planted some crops
But they were imported
An ideal situation this land may be
To the adaptable, changing and innovative breeds
It is habitable to the natives and hybrids that are able to flourish
But me, my roots come from a different tree
They belong somewhere else
They always have
I can survive in new elements
But only with proper care and chemicals
The artificial adaptations eventually take their wear
And usually from the inside out
Without the natural nourishment I whither
So as thankful as I am for a land that harvested growth
It is essential to my survival that I find my proper home

I was in love with you
with the silly things you did
and obnoxious words you said
but over night
you changed
there's now nothing
for you to do
or say
that'll bring back
who I fell for

Your changing your behavior
Your changing your style
Your changing your beliefs
Just so they can match his
You call it love but it's for from it

If he loved you for you
Then you wouldn't feel
The need to change,
You'd be comfortable
In your own skin.

Conformity isn't love don't let them fool not even once.

Remain in a state of wonder
that cannot be comprehended
by those around you
Be one with the earth
as a wandering soul
wide eyed
free
and changing

This is the ladder---your first steps into the height. There are no apples. There are no angels. There is only broken shadow and socket; a rounded house of milk and voltage. Now, as you unscrew the bulb with fingertips, listen for the sand. It is sand from ancestral beaches were all families of glass have been blown. A beach where dinosaurs are continually struck by lightning. Continue swiveling until the blown-out bulb is free from the ceiling. Come down, but do not look down. Use the eye in each shoe to find the lower rungs. Place the old bulb in with the dish of pears. The new carton of bulbs are close by, sleeping. Unwrap a fresh bulb from its onionskin pajamas and ascend the same ladder previous. Using your musical hand, insert the threaded end up into the unthreaded beginning. Turn gently in the direction of sunrise until snug. Pull the chain, for the light of God's echoing equation will now sing. Squint and descend.

Gray skies and broken rain
Sliding down the windshield
A lifeline ever-changing
Droplets, in contact they merge
Yet, some sit lonely, isolated
Only to be ****** into the paths of others
Left behind or swept away