Bubbling, blistering anger,
It overcomes my mind.
It makes my whole body
Shake with the tremor of a
Thousand inner earthquakes.
My thoughts are cloaked in
The color and feel of blood
And violence. That nice doormat,
Well, you just killed her.
Now you've got to deal with FURY.
Fury, in me, becomes like a
Force of nature. I can just
Imagine myself launching at
Somebody, wailing on them, and
All that's left is a bloody, pulpy mush.
All my morals go against murder.
I'm against physical fighting. I'm
Against hurting others, and I don't
Like making fists. But Fury, well,
She likes to try and break my Peace.
When She's got a hold of my Brain,
And I can't think of anything peaceful,
That's when I pull out my big bargain.
See, Fury, she wants to see blood. She
Wants to feel the physical pain of a fight.
So, when part of me switches off, and
I just don't give a fuck, I scare myself.
But fixing it is so, so simple. I rush
To my tools. I scamper to safety;
I open them up, and I draw.
This drawing, though, it's done in blood.
My blood. I hurt myself before I hurt others.
I'll beat myself up when I'm mad. When
All I want to do is see someones' guts all
Over a floor, I got cut. It's weirdly calming.
I get to see the blood, and feel the
Sweet scratches. I do something memorable,
So that I can never foreget that person and
Get taken advantage of so badly by another.
It saves me from becoming someone I don't want to be.
With each scratch, the sting worsens.
When it begins to be bothered and it
Actually hurts, that's when I know it's safe.
I can stop, because Fury has been beat back.
I can re-emerge that peaceful Autumn Breeze.
Thursday, September 29, 2011
Monday, September 26, 2011
Boulevard Bonds
So many fun and
Exciting things occur
In that infamous,
Glorious, glitz and squalor.
As cars rush past,
Take time out down
McCadden, by Scrub Life
To pause the day with a bowl.
Light it and puff-puff.
Pass it, and chat.
Sit back, and observe.
The color of the sunlight Turns.
Turns everything all down
That grand boulevard to only
The gold color a 4:20 sun
Can create in the gray shadow of city.
Sit with the street family,
And trade epic tales of adventure -
Stories that only arise from
Circumstances of pure "squalor".
You are destined to chat
With the most wonderfully eccentric
Tribe of people you shall ever meet -
Createing those Boulevard Bonds.
Exciting things occur
In that infamous,
Glorious, glitz and squalor.
As cars rush past,
Take time out down
McCadden, by Scrub Life
To pause the day with a bowl.
Light it and puff-puff.
Pass it, and chat.
Sit back, and observe.
The color of the sunlight Turns.
Turns everything all down
That grand boulevard to only
The gold color a 4:20 sun
Can create in the gray shadow of city.
Sit with the street family,
And trade epic tales of adventure -
Stories that only arise from
Circumstances of pure "squalor".
You are destined to chat
With the most wonderfully eccentric
Tribe of people you shall ever meet -
Createing those Boulevard Bonds.
Friday, September 23, 2011
Crush....
*Author's note: Yeah, it's a stupid poem, about a stupid crush, but I think it's okay.*
It doesn't yet show,
But on the inside, I am
Crying. Mourning over the
Loss of someone before I ever had them.
It began, this stupid
Crush of absolute folly,
With me watching him
From afar. Isolated in my "new-girl" role.
As I acclimated to the surroundings,
My heard soared as I came across
The opportunity to converse and
Interact with said crush.
But, alas, he told me that
My bubbly, always-kind-to-everyone
Nature made him nervous.
So, I had to back away.
There are so many questions I
Yearn to ask him, so many
Stories unique to my desired one
That I wish to hear, and it hurts.
Hurts because when I am
Around him, I have to be quiet,
For fear of scaring him off.
(You see, I cherish each inconsequential moment.)
My heart flutters each time
That he speaks to me, only
For me to hang my head in shame,
Because he's wishing for me to go away or give him paper.
There have been times, though,
Few and far between, in which,
Miraculously, us two are sitting together,
Silently writing, writing, writing.\
And now, inside I cry, because
I turn around, and there he is,
Smiling and talking and laughing with
Another nice girl, and I can't get through.
Fuck! I first and foremost wish
To be friends with the boy, yet
I can't seem to even make him
Smile like others do....
My crush on him, well, that
Simply makes my failure feel
All the more tragic. So I sit,
Write this poem, cry, grieve, and will eventually move on.
It doesn't yet show,
But on the inside, I am
Crying. Mourning over the
Loss of someone before I ever had them.
It began, this stupid
Crush of absolute folly,
With me watching him
From afar. Isolated in my "new-girl" role.
As I acclimated to the surroundings,
My heard soared as I came across
The opportunity to converse and
Interact with said crush.
But, alas, he told me that
My bubbly, always-kind-to-everyone
Nature made him nervous.
So, I had to back away.
There are so many questions I
Yearn to ask him, so many
Stories unique to my desired one
That I wish to hear, and it hurts.
Hurts because when I am
Around him, I have to be quiet,
For fear of scaring him off.
(You see, I cherish each inconsequential moment.)
My heart flutters each time
That he speaks to me, only
For me to hang my head in shame,
Because he's wishing for me to go away or give him paper.
There have been times, though,
Few and far between, in which,
Miraculously, us two are sitting together,
Silently writing, writing, writing.\
And now, inside I cry, because
I turn around, and there he is,
Smiling and talking and laughing with
Another nice girl, and I can't get through.
Fuck! I first and foremost wish
To be friends with the boy, yet
I can't seem to even make him
Smile like others do....
My crush on him, well, that
Simply makes my failure feel
All the more tragic. So I sit,
Write this poem, cry, grieve, and will eventually move on.
Thursday, September 22, 2011
Smoke
When it's just me,
In a cozy spot with
A lit cigarrette, smoking
Unharried, I sit and watch.
Watch the orange-hot cherry
Burn down the length of
White paper and brown tobbacco.
And the blue smoke curling up, upward.
Inside, it curls and then
Mushrooms out, swirling, twirling
Reminding me of the underwater
Flutter and bob of clear-blue jelly-fish.
Sometimes, I reflect on that
One night, when someone who
Holds knowledge far beyond his year
Introduced me to the idea that smoke can be scryed.
All alone, I meditatively gaze
At and through the large
Explosions of carbon monoxide
That my lungs expell.
I have yet to scry the smoke,
But instead it has brought
Me hours of fascinated analyzation
Of its curling ribbon of blue-gray.
There's nothing so beautiful as
The ancient, intricate swirls and
Patterns that my modern, man-made
Cigarrettes produce everyday.
In a cozy spot with
A lit cigarrette, smoking
Unharried, I sit and watch.
Watch the orange-hot cherry
Burn down the length of
White paper and brown tobbacco.
And the blue smoke curling up, upward.
Inside, it curls and then
Mushrooms out, swirling, twirling
Reminding me of the underwater
Flutter and bob of clear-blue jelly-fish.
Sometimes, I reflect on that
One night, when someone who
Holds knowledge far beyond his year
Introduced me to the idea that smoke can be scryed.
All alone, I meditatively gaze
At and through the large
Explosions of carbon monoxide
That my lungs expell.
I have yet to scry the smoke,
But instead it has brought
Me hours of fascinated analyzation
Of its curling ribbon of blue-gray.
There's nothing so beautiful as
The ancient, intricate swirls and
Patterns that my modern, man-made
Cigarrettes produce everyday.
Santa Monica
As I run, barefooted
Over the warm, golden sand
I am overcome with such
Great joy at the sight of the sea.
I stand, meditatively now
In the soaked sand, enjoying
The playful surf, pleasantly
Nipping at my feet covered in foam.
The tide is coming back in,
And I'm in the thick of it,
Waist-deep, all my worries
And angst washing away.
I lift my head up high,
Soaking in the glorious sunset
And singing my troubles, my love
And then my praise to that lovely sea.
A breeze, peaceful as can be,
Seemingly wraps around my body
In a soft embrace - all is well.
Inside me my soul is calm and triumphant.
Over the warm, golden sand
I am overcome with such
Great joy at the sight of the sea.
I stand, meditatively now
In the soaked sand, enjoying
The playful surf, pleasantly
Nipping at my feet covered in foam.
The tide is coming back in,
And I'm in the thick of it,
Waist-deep, all my worries
And angst washing away.
I lift my head up high,
Soaking in the glorious sunset
And singing my troubles, my love
And then my praise to that lovely sea.
A breeze, peaceful as can be,
Seemingly wraps around my body
In a soft embrace - all is well.
Inside me my soul is calm and triumphant.
Dying World
We live in a dying world.
Cities abound, and all of our
Metal, brick, stone and mortar
Buildings are utterly DEAD.
The packaged food we eat,
That is dead as well.
It is so processed and fucked-with
That its flavor has passed on.
The vibrancy and positivity of
Life has also passed on.
What surrounds us in society is
Suspicion, fear, anger, and strife.
I believe that not all of
Our brains are gone, though.
There is hope that we can
Turn it all around and make this world great.
Cities abound, and all of our
Metal, brick, stone and mortar
Buildings are utterly DEAD.
The packaged food we eat,
That is dead as well.
It is so processed and fucked-with
That its flavor has passed on.
The vibrancy and positivity of
Life has also passed on.
What surrounds us in society is
Suspicion, fear, anger, and strife.
I believe that not all of
Our brains are gone, though.
There is hope that we can
Turn it all around and make this world great.
Random Poem with no Name
I close my eyes,
And open my imagination
Letting the instrumentals
Transport me to another place.
I see a bright, beautiful
Girl, joyously playing
In a field of sunflowers,
Without a care in the world.
Darkness, clouds, hurt
Obscure the scene, and
Eva is transformed into a
Grief-stricken adolescent.
The field is only a field,
No longer large enough
To hold all her dreams,
Stripped of it's motherly comfort.
She flees the village,
Kind pariah she may be,
Yet she is still unwanted,
Seeking the forest and adventure.
And open my imagination
Letting the instrumentals
Transport me to another place.
I see a bright, beautiful
Girl, joyously playing
In a field of sunflowers,
Without a care in the world.
Darkness, clouds, hurt
Obscure the scene, and
Eva is transformed into a
Grief-stricken adolescent.
The field is only a field,
No longer large enough
To hold all her dreams,
Stripped of it's motherly comfort.
She flees the village,
Kind pariah she may be,
Yet she is still unwanted,
Seeking the forest and adventure.
Rain
Running, lithe and bouncy,
I dash, flit and dance
Among the untainted deciduous
Sacred forests and mountains.
The wind, whipping through
All the pines, maples and firs,
Stirs up a confetti of red, yellow, brown.
I dance among the falling leaves.
The dark, wet clouds roll up,
Obscuring the bright full moon
And roof of twinkling Stars.
I lift my head up, waiting, wistful.
Twirling into an open grove,
I feel it...the soft,
Slow, sweet kisses of Rain!
I spin, and leap, and twirl with it.
Eventually, I begin to spiral
Inward from the outer grove.
The peaceful patter begins
To beat harder, harder.
As I spiral closer to the center,
It becomes a life-glood
Pulse of pure torrential
Downpour, and at peak, I stop.
Eye of the storm, ives
Me fifteen blissful minutes
Of peace, quiet, stars,
A beautiful, dewy moonlit grove.
I begin to see the clouds spin
In, and I spiral swirl with
Them, hard downpour muddies
Everything....fertilizing Mother Earth.
I worship the Great Rite,
Of Sky and Earth united
As one, wet, beautiful
Fertile land of Creation.
And as I close the spiral,
The storm thus spent, I
End, peace-filled, ecstatic,
To sit in and old tree and watch.
I dash, flit and dance
Among the untainted deciduous
Sacred forests and mountains.
The wind, whipping through
All the pines, maples and firs,
Stirs up a confetti of red, yellow, brown.
I dance among the falling leaves.
The dark, wet clouds roll up,
Obscuring the bright full moon
And roof of twinkling Stars.
I lift my head up, waiting, wistful.
Twirling into an open grove,
I feel it...the soft,
Slow, sweet kisses of Rain!
I spin, and leap, and twirl with it.
Eventually, I begin to spiral
Inward from the outer grove.
The peaceful patter begins
To beat harder, harder.
As I spiral closer to the center,
It becomes a life-glood
Pulse of pure torrential
Downpour, and at peak, I stop.
Eye of the storm, ives
Me fifteen blissful minutes
Of peace, quiet, stars,
A beautiful, dewy moonlit grove.
I begin to see the clouds spin
In, and I spiral swirl with
Them, hard downpour muddies
Everything....fertilizing Mother Earth.
I worship the Great Rite,
Of Sky and Earth united
As one, wet, beautiful
Fertile land of Creation.
And as I close the spiral,
The storm thus spent, I
End, peace-filled, ecstatic,
To sit in and old tree and watch.
Excuses of Why
Excuses of why I never called
To Check-in.
I had become ashamed of my transformation.
From Middle-class intellect to Neo-Hippie idealism.
Peace, Love, Unity, Respect, Responsibility, and Reconnaisance,
Though, right?
Show that towards me and my life,
And I will respond in kind. P.L.U.R.R.R.!
Excuses to never give up my idealism
For brute Capitalism.
I have found joy in the random amble of
Life more connected to nature, to Realilty.
Nature provides me with comfort
And guidance.
I will forever seek out the meaning in life
And look for ways to improve the world.
To Check-in.
I had become ashamed of my transformation.
From Middle-class intellect to Neo-Hippie idealism.
Peace, Love, Unity, Respect, Responsibility, and Reconnaisance,
Though, right?
Show that towards me and my life,
And I will respond in kind. P.L.U.R.R.R.!
Excuses to never give up my idealism
For brute Capitalism.
I have found joy in the random amble of
Life more connected to nature, to Realilty.
Nature provides me with comfort
And guidance.
I will forever seek out the meaning in life
And look for ways to improve the world.
Oceanside Pier
In the midnight quiet of
Worry and discontent, I
Am given pause as I
Light my cigarrette, observing the Pacific.
It comes in the form,
Of the lone scraggly seagull,
Shining in the deep black
Of the star-covered sea.
He bobs and weaves,
Surfing the cool moist salty
Sea breeze of whispers.
Out, out into the deep dark night.
My night was blessed in the
Fleeting company of my
Brother in life, the
Hopeful, purposeful Gull.
All at once the peaceful
Sense of knowledge
Befell my soul and
Quieted my thoughts of worry.
It's as if Poseidon himself
Had whispered,"Stress not, for
Thy suffering holds purpose."
Through the cool embrace of the wind....
My inner resolve strengthens
As I rest myself for
The journey I plan on embarking
Upon the bright, cheerful Morrow.
Worry and discontent, I
Am given pause as I
Light my cigarrette, observing the Pacific.
It comes in the form,
Of the lone scraggly seagull,
Shining in the deep black
Of the star-covered sea.
He bobs and weaves,
Surfing the cool moist salty
Sea breeze of whispers.
Out, out into the deep dark night.
My night was blessed in the
Fleeting company of my
Brother in life, the
Hopeful, purposeful Gull.
All at once the peaceful
Sense of knowledge
Befell my soul and
Quieted my thoughts of worry.
It's as if Poseidon himself
Had whispered,"Stress not, for
Thy suffering holds purpose."
Through the cool embrace of the wind....
My inner resolve strengthens
As I rest myself for
The journey I plan on embarking
Upon the bright, cheerful Morrow.
City.
When one thinks of the word, I'm sure bustle and noise and innumerable neon signs are pictured. Have you ever watched the night pass by, though? Traffic picks up just after dark. Then it ebbs down. Sirens can be heard on the average of once per hour. Walking, one comes across tons of dark niches that loose all their mystery and shadow with the onset of day. By 3 a.m., the streets are the quietest. You can pick a spot ANYWHERE and meditate, it's that quiet. It's quite a transformation, and to think, in twelve hours, that same spot will be subject to a deafening cacophany of sound and activity. Then, at 6 a.m., the rosy tendrils of dawn begin to paint the world with color. Slowly, the shadows loose all their menace. The town looks sleepy, as the streets begin to pulse with morning traffic. People heading to work, quietly going about their business. It's so restful and peaceful. Then, the bright rays of fresh, morning sunlight rise above the horizon. Everything is bathed in fiery, sun-rise energy. So invigorating, positive, and un-tainted! One thing is for sure, the cycle between day and night should never, ever be thought of as anything less than a beautiful, balanced blessing.
Imagine
Imagine you're living on the streets.
Imagine the ebbs and flows of life.
Imagine you are watched over.
Imagine there exists a patronness of street-kids.
Imagine her hair in a medusa-like mess of dreads.
Imagine a crown of un-harvested pot plants.
Imagine her skank masking her nose and mouth.
Imagine dead lighter-heads line the edges of EVERYTHING.
Imagine, around her neck there's a dreamcatcher.
Imagine her skin decorated in tats and train grease.
Imagine her wearing patched-up Carharts, cut-off at her calves.
Imagine her feet protected by beat-up steel-toe Docs.
Imagine her sitting in an enclave on the busy sidewalk.
Imagine to her left, a street-wise dog lays.
Imagine in front of her there's a backpack and spange sign.
Imagine her ask for "spare change" and pray for "world peace".
Imagine in her top-right hand a long, wooden pipe.
Imagine in her bottom-right hand a mini-boom box bumpin' techno and alternative.
Imagine her top-left hand making the gesture of peace to the world.
Imagine her bottom-left arm encased in candies, and holding glo-sticks.
Imagine her watching over sharing, happiness, and friendship.
Imagine her blessing us all with weed, change, food and clothes.
Imagine her loving the Mother Earth.
Imagine there is a Goddess Boheme.
Imagine the ebbs and flows of life.
Imagine you are watched over.
Imagine there exists a patronness of street-kids.
Imagine her hair in a medusa-like mess of dreads.
Imagine a crown of un-harvested pot plants.
Imagine her skank masking her nose and mouth.
Imagine dead lighter-heads line the edges of EVERYTHING.
Imagine, around her neck there's a dreamcatcher.
Imagine her skin decorated in tats and train grease.
Imagine her wearing patched-up Carharts, cut-off at her calves.
Imagine her feet protected by beat-up steel-toe Docs.
Imagine her sitting in an enclave on the busy sidewalk.
Imagine to her left, a street-wise dog lays.
Imagine in front of her there's a backpack and spange sign.
Imagine her ask for "spare change" and pray for "world peace".
Imagine in her top-right hand a long, wooden pipe.
Imagine in her bottom-right hand a mini-boom box bumpin' techno and alternative.
Imagine her top-left hand making the gesture of peace to the world.
Imagine her bottom-left arm encased in candies, and holding glo-sticks.
Imagine her watching over sharing, happiness, and friendship.
Imagine her blessing us all with weed, change, food and clothes.
Imagine her loving the Mother Earth.
Imagine there is a Goddess Boheme.
The Stoner "Bridge to Terabithia"
After a long, anticipatory wait, the gaggle of "kids" mob to their spot, only to find it occupied by a six-year-old's birthday party. In seach of a safer haven, they cut through the park and search the back. A promising tunnel-path becons. Safe, shrouded in the dim-dark of the middle of the tunnel, they pause, dividing, sharing, rolling sweet marijuana into blunts. The IMPOSSIBLE happens, and one catches a glimpse of the cops rolling by. The group quickly walks through the tunnel, finding a perfectly quiet residential area on the other side. They stood, rolling some more. Intending to venture further, yet feeling lost, they stood and smoked, ready to mob if it seemed necessary. Thirty minutes seemed sacred and lasted forever, as everybody efficiently smoked two indica blunts, and one fat hybrid. Then, leaving, the gaggle retraced their steps, returning to the side of noisy, bothersome reality they had left behind, departing to embark on their own separate adventures.
Raver's Delight~*
Spark a bowl and
Puff-puff-pass it.
Wait for those warm fuzzy
Feelings to open my mind.
On go the SkullCandy's.
Select: "Hardstyle Mix. Vol. 2"
Sit in a cozy spot -
RAVE to KITsune DJ!
Close my eyes and
In each hand rests
Tools of intricate beauty -
Two glo-sticks (each attached to a string).
As the music wraps around
My brain, my inner raver Begins.
Slowly, I twirl each poi,
My feet planted in the ground.
The lyrics begin,
And my body twirls in
Freestyle only anti-pattern
Can bring me freedom to do.
Hard bass-throbs tickle
My ears, and I pattern
My twirls, with each
Pulse, glo-sticks swing down.
Everything stills, and
"Speed of Sound" begins it's
Lyrical build - an I
Anti-pattern, glosticks in hand.
The drop builds as I
Twirl out the poi from each hand.
Bouncing and mindlessly Effervescent,
I twirl and spin, full of energy and light.
I become one with the beat,
Lost and ecstatic. Life becomes
Me, the beat, and the
Hypnotic play of poi dance.
Kit, he'd be proud, if
Only he could witness my vision.
My ultimate Raver-goal:
To become an evocative poi artist.
All those "mini-raves" with
Ninja Down, Mamas, Haze'n'
Kit's Quasi-psychadelic mixes
And poi choreography are imprinted.
Now, as I finish my
Preparations, I can feel his
Influence in my veins,
Pulsing as I begin my quest.
As I practice, I plan
In my mind the best way
To time everything, to
Poi and do justice to his mix.
P.L.U.R.R.R.!
~Giggles: THe Mo'Fuckin' Squirrell!!!~
Puff-puff-pass it.
Wait for those warm fuzzy
Feelings to open my mind.
On go the SkullCandy's.
Select: "Hardstyle Mix. Vol. 2"
Sit in a cozy spot -
RAVE to KITsune DJ!
Close my eyes and
In each hand rests
Tools of intricate beauty -
Two glo-sticks (each attached to a string).
As the music wraps around
My brain, my inner raver Begins.
Slowly, I twirl each poi,
My feet planted in the ground.
The lyrics begin,
And my body twirls in
Freestyle only anti-pattern
Can bring me freedom to do.
Hard bass-throbs tickle
My ears, and I pattern
My twirls, with each
Pulse, glo-sticks swing down.
Everything stills, and
"Speed of Sound" begins it's
Lyrical build - an I
Anti-pattern, glosticks in hand.
The drop builds as I
Twirl out the poi from each hand.
Bouncing and mindlessly Effervescent,
I twirl and spin, full of energy and light.
I become one with the beat,
Lost and ecstatic. Life becomes
Me, the beat, and the
Hypnotic play of poi dance.
Kit, he'd be proud, if
Only he could witness my vision.
My ultimate Raver-goal:
To become an evocative poi artist.
All those "mini-raves" with
Ninja Down, Mamas, Haze'n'
Kit's Quasi-psychadelic mixes
And poi choreography are imprinted.
Now, as I finish my
Preparations, I can feel his
Influence in my veins,
Pulsing as I begin my quest.
As I practice, I plan
In my mind the best way
To time everything, to
Poi and do justice to his mix.
P.L.U.R.R.R.!
~Giggles: THe Mo'Fuckin' Squirrell!!!~
The Inner Thoughts of a Tree
At first look, it seems my life is so very simple, like my concerns are nil. But, its not always easy, being Green. Sure, it can be really quite luxourious at times. For example, I am blessed to have set roots in a nice, big park! us trees don't get to use those newfangled cellphones, so we communicate throught the wind, and from what I hear, trees like to reside in parks, first and foremost. Why? It's all those positive vibes! Running, laughing, screaming-with-delight children surround me all day, everyday. So much joy is contained inside a park, that it just makes us trees grow taller. And when all the kids are in school, there's always the squatters or neo-hippies to keep me company, sitting under my branches, passing a smoking apple, and telling me the news in the human world. They also bring good vibes. And then, of course, there are those days where much more negative souls cross my path. OUCH!! I DON'T like being carved upon!! Finally, when you all go to bed, I get to watch the mysteries of the night unfold. I watch owls and mice move in the intricate dance that can only connect the hunter and its prey.
Soon, the moon settles down back to sleep, and pure beauty awakens! However, no matter what beauty I get to behold, dawn is ALWAYS the saddest part of the day. You see, I just can't ever seem to be quite tall enough when I find myself facing the day's birth. Yupp. You heard me....I tower over every single one of you humans, and yet I am still not tall enough. Why? Oh, I'll tell you why. I am in love! In love with something so common, yet so impossibly unattainable! In love with that golden-rayed, hot Sun.
Each and everyday, he rises, and as those magical new-day rays touch my dry bark, I imagine that they're all just there to carress me, and to tell me what a beautiful day it will be. Everyday, when I was a tiny sapling, I'd stare up, up forever into his shining face, being the best little tree I knew how to be in order to evoke some praise. As I grew, I found out that my imaginings of him shining upon me, telling me I was the best tree, were never, ever going to happen. Apparently, its because us trees are too lowly for the Sun to be paying Special attention to us. I've been told that if I were to touch that fair-headed Sun, I'd instantly combust. But, by then, I had already decided that my combustion would result simply from too much pure ecstasy running through me, resulting in my worthwhile combustion. So, everyday, I soak up all of the laughter and joyous sounds from my park. Everyday, I grow taller. Everyday, at around 4:00 p.m., when everything seems to hold that magical golden glow that only that delicious Sun can cause, I dream. Dream of that One Day, when I have finally grown tall enough. That one day that he could never ignore me, because I, that nice old tree at DeLongpre Park, touched him just ever-so-slightly, and in that moment he knew. Knew as I exploded with all that heat and excitement, that I had always loved him, and had worked each day for that last touch of his sweet, gentle rays.
Soon, the moon settles down back to sleep, and pure beauty awakens! However, no matter what beauty I get to behold, dawn is ALWAYS the saddest part of the day. You see, I just can't ever seem to be quite tall enough when I find myself facing the day's birth. Yupp. You heard me....I tower over every single one of you humans, and yet I am still not tall enough. Why? Oh, I'll tell you why. I am in love! In love with something so common, yet so impossibly unattainable! In love with that golden-rayed, hot Sun.
Each and everyday, he rises, and as those magical new-day rays touch my dry bark, I imagine that they're all just there to carress me, and to tell me what a beautiful day it will be. Everyday, when I was a tiny sapling, I'd stare up, up forever into his shining face, being the best little tree I knew how to be in order to evoke some praise. As I grew, I found out that my imaginings of him shining upon me, telling me I was the best tree, were never, ever going to happen. Apparently, its because us trees are too lowly for the Sun to be paying Special attention to us. I've been told that if I were to touch that fair-headed Sun, I'd instantly combust. But, by then, I had already decided that my combustion would result simply from too much pure ecstasy running through me, resulting in my worthwhile combustion. So, everyday, I soak up all of the laughter and joyous sounds from my park. Everyday, I grow taller. Everyday, at around 4:00 p.m., when everything seems to hold that magical golden glow that only that delicious Sun can cause, I dream. Dream of that One Day, when I have finally grown tall enough. That one day that he could never ignore me, because I, that nice old tree at DeLongpre Park, touched him just ever-so-slightly, and in that moment he knew. Knew as I exploded with all that heat and excitement, that I had always loved him, and had worked each day for that last touch of his sweet, gentle rays.
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