On a busy afternoon i sat on the floor,
and i felt someone looking at me.
Through the glass frame peering into room,
Was an old, brown wood tree.

The tree was old, yet rather slim,
And i wondered how it spent it's day.
Was it by feeling the raindrops fall?
Or by watching the children play?

The tree had rusty green leaves,
Dwelling on its branches all along.
When the wind blew and the leaves moved,
They'd whistle it a beautiful song.

The tree was still and i could move,
Yet to me, it felt more alive.
As i could move, still feel stuck.
And it was still, at peace and thrived.

I often envy the brown wood tree,
As it enjoys the sunset of june.
Thinking that, i get up and realize that I'm late,
To continue with my busy afternoon.

that night,
i was brewing coffee in my favorite mug,
then began knitting another homemade scarf
while soft songs played in the background.

my mind began to wander—
is this the life i chose,
or one that was chosen for me?
this so-called unhealthy relationship...

i wondered:
is he thinking of me, smiling?
or wearing that same blank expression
he always gave
whenever we had another
boring conversation?

i began to ask myself:
have i wasted my time
on something i never truly liked?
have i wasted my years
on something i’ll always regret?

have i wasted my tears
on something i could never hold or reach?
or worse—
have i given up my soul and freedom
for something that never truly existed?

and yet,
i’m still sitting here
with my coffee,
knitting
another useless scarf
i’ll never wear.

It’s like I’m looking for ways to avoid myself      

       (I’m looking for ways to not care)

It’s like I’m going around every corner trying to avoid my own stare  

It’s like I’m running away from a shadow

          (Yet I know it’s always there)

I’m afraid of every part of me I swear…

They want me to love myself???

                      “Say hi!”

  Look in the mask

         There’s blood
            
                     It’s stained.

Avoiding myself

(a lonely ride)

All of the ways I could

           -complain-

Look to my heart and you’ll see

     (inside it steadily bleeds)

Blood veil drags behind me
                       &
I don’t know how to scream

A lonely buoy sways in the waves of indecision,
bobbing up and down, and up and down
pacing back and forth, and back and forth,
from side to side and again under the amber road, moonlit.

The tides are calm but large, but the buoy doesn't sink.
It's prepared, designed, taught what to do
in moments like these: to swim back,
back to shore, back to safety, turn a back
to the great, lethal liquid land beyond our own.

But this time, that glow of golden light,
that hails from the incandescent majesty of the gloomy night-sky,
goes far into and over the horizon, glistening in the void sea,
glimmering on the bouy like golden lunacy,
capturing it, alluring it, cradling it gently,
shining on it like glitter and exposing it to a totally novel colour,
totally radiating and tranquilising — or so it would be
if not for the distant, real winds.

The such similar shade of orange, shared
by the sky-light and the streetlamps,
depict a tale of unfulfilled greatness and mimicry
(though I don't mean to insinuate that the lunacy is itself not enlightened)

Perhaps this is the way: to mimic
a mere fraction of the power of the giants
whose great shoulders we stand upon without gratitude,
unaware of how unfulfilled and untouched
and unkept our passions meet end.

The buoy battles with risk and reward, screaming and cursing
silently,
crashing out on the waves of both sides,
ripping and parting its poor soul;
the dark void at the horizon that divides the path
from the moon,
invites it, coaxes it, charms and enchants it to take a chance:
the leap of faith.

But the buoy sways on in the wind.