Finally seeing the forest

 

I’m lost in the trees again,

Dazing at the leaves,

Wondering about the green.

I’ve fallen silent among my friends,

As I stare aimlessly at the seeds.

They wonder if something’s wrong,

Nothing is.

Yet when I tell them I’m fine,

They seem unconvinced,

As if it would be impossible,

For a man to be happy,

Gazing earnestly at trees.

I’m lost in the trees again,

Distant to the pain around me,

Distant to the pain in me.

I’m lost in the trees again,

I’m happy that I am.

 

I’m lost in the trees again,

Absolved by their presence.

Everything around me

Becomes me.

People say they can’t reach me,

But I feel in touch with everything.

People say there’s something wrong with me,

What could be wrong with this?

I feel the wind as my own breath,

I feel the sky as my own,

I feel part of it all.

 

I’m lost in the trees again,

I’m no longer singled out,

Pointed out, or standing out.

There is no longer a me, or an I,

There is just what the eye can see.

I’m happy being lost in the trees,

Now I don’t feel lonely.

I’m happy being lost in the trees,

Because now I don’t feel lost.

I’m happy being lost in the trees,

Now that I can see the forest.

Family

A family is warmth.

They can comfort,

Make it easy for you.

Life is good at times,

When you’re cosy and warm.

 

But heat can be oppressive,

Layered onto you.

It’s not letting you breath.

It’s not letting you escape.

 

They layer their feelings onto you,

Their ideas and thoughts.

Is it any wonder you long for the cold,

When you cannot escape their familial warmth.

Shattered glass

I broke a glass; I wasn’t holding it right,

I just let go, and it fell, and it broke.

These things happen, I’m not overly concerned.

No one lost sleep over broken glass, right?

 

I look at the glass,

Pieces lie separated from each other,

I stare down at them.

I’m outrageously apathetic towards the pieces.

A moment ago I watched as it fell,

I was filled with hope that that glass

Would not break,

That it would just bounce maybe,

Or roll, or if my feet could’ve reached…

Not break though, never that.

 

I wondered if the glassmaker of this glass,

Would feel robbed if I mention this work I broke,

Or if he wouldn’t care at all.

I doubt I’d react the same,

I’d be fouled of the fact, ashamed,

That I’d be sad if I saw my work broken.

 

If the writing paper was torn,

If the revelations were forgotten,

The emotions blotted,

And expectations rotten.

I don’t think you can make something,

If you worry of it breaking,

And yet I worry endlessly that it will shatter.

 

Perhaps glassmakers don’t care about broken glass,

They know it will break eventually.

Maybe they hope for it to be worthwhile while its alive,

To have contained some beauty or kept some drunk happy.

 

Perhaps a glassmaker knows,

That what he takes from the sand,

He must give back in time.

I think I should think the same.

And yet, if my work were to break I should be sad.

Time stole the works of Ozymandias,

I pray it shall not take mine.