Sometimes I feel incomplete, as if my two hands clasped aren't enough to hold,
As if my body heat needs to be supplemented somehow, or encouraged;
I don't feel enough pressure on my skin throughout the day, and though I'm not six years old,
I decide to touch everything I see, everyone, so we aren't all discouraged.
I only know my position of mind, any other I've barely grazed through,
Since I was born and raised with this head, my mind has developed it's own ways...
But I'll always glance over, when I'm not being beheld, to take a look at you,
And study your habits, expressions, even your name, until my focus is swayed.
And this is what I do with myself, how I fill up my time and my brain.
I daydream with my head down and refuse to see the sun,
The blinding light doesn't see me as an herb, but simply something to drain.
Burn my eyes with your excellence, your independence has won,
And I, laying face down in the soil, feel your burning influence upon my back.
Swelter my skin, I don't have to ask. Are you who I want to be?
An unstoppable force in someone's sky that can both comfort and attack?
Is that what I'll have? A sun of a man to hold? One who both loves and harms me?
However, it may be my own fault, as the harm is inevitable here,
Staying out without protecting myself from the ball of light in the sky.
The earth against my forehead is cool and rich, making my head clear,
It takes each whimper, each tear that falls, and absorbs every cry.
I bury my face into the dirt, squeezing my eyes shut so tight,
I taste the sediment, the clay, the plant remains, but I don't mind.
It feels just fine. Cool on my skin, dark and soft, it feels just right.
So much so that I forget about the sun that looms right behind.