I stepped into my back yard. With thousands of
Supple blades of satiated grass
COLLAPSING beneath my-
Worn down sneakers. $15 at Walmart?
Three steps in and I- remember.
My Tree Dance
Shit. Do I remember? Oh wait. Yea.
My Tree Dance
That let's the earth talk to me. And so I-
I spun. Spin. Spinning. Twirl till you
Hurl COLLAPSE.
And a funny thing happens when you've spun so fast.
That you're out of breath.
And the Asthma constricts your lungs.
And the burning seeps through your veins you.
You- just notice different things and.
I took comfort in the soil.
I felt at home in the
Unruly. Imperfect. Weed Filled Yard.
I happen to think that- Dandelions are cute.
I... couldn't really think of a reason
why anyone would do away with
Such magical plants. With their floating faries and
Playful innocent "whatever"
Childhood memmories embedded in the
Butterscotch yellow of the Daisy Chain Petals.
But- no one seemed to give a fuck.
No, no one seemed to give a fuck at all.
I just laid breathless asking myself.
What the hell kind of predicament I had gotten
Myself in... Myself...
Myself is such a strange word I found. Perhaps just
Redundant. Perhaps just... self-encompassing
It seems so... selfish. I kind of wanted
To feel selfish without. Remorse. though
Remorse is another dumb word.
That I never found pleasing to my ear.
That's what I wanted. I wanted to be selfish.
Without feeling guilty.
Is what I asked for. But
Tree's are jackasses.
Huge bark covered jackasses.
Maybe I did the Dance wrong.
Maybe the hurt inside is a beetle playing some late
April Fools joke that will go away when I
Ask it nicely enough?
LandMine LandMind.
Then I babble. I fucking ramble. So cryptic.
Even I wont know what I'm talking about tommorrow.
But. I just feel today. Feel today like a popsicle.
A melted one. With the stick dropped and littered
you know.
They stick to the floor and they're a bitch to clean up.
It's just. I dunno. A mess I guess- everywhere. And you
Gotta get the towels and the water and stuff you just..
Thats. Maybe.
I dont know. Kind of like that.
Or Or Or. A stale peep.
That's fun to look at.
But not really all that appetisizing maybe?
But like I said. Way crpytic. What the fuck am I
even talking about anymore.
I guess. This was a poem or something. Failed.
But it's how I feel.
I don't get it.
I don't get it.
I don't get it at all.
But somehow. That makes all the fucking sense in the world.
Somehow. That's the only thing that makes sense in the world. Somehow. I dont know.