woe is me

why do I run, from the things I love the most?

why do the things I love the most let go so easily?

the closer I get, the further I run away

I'm in the tree, stumped

I can't say a word,

I haven't got one to say

I wonder if they hear the sighing wind whisking all around me..

leaves fall to the ground, without a sound

the sun vacates the rusting plane as the

clouds take the throne and control the weeping sky

drenched in sorrow, I descend down the jagged bark

and creep into an unfamiliar hole in the earth

there I pick at my grotesque lesions screaming my woe

what do they care? what do they know?

I hear a grumbling down below

my stomach hungers for tranquility

once a blanket of dirt, now a pool of mud

covers my withering body, warding off the demons of the night

I've planted myself in the earth's crust

and impatiently ponder if I'll ever bloom

What do you assume?

Author's Notes/Comments: 

what about this title?

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