I take a seed to become a tree,
That will bear the fruits of our lives together,
I hope it stands above the dirt, stronger than oak,
Standing in the most fearsome of weathers.
I put the seed into the ground,
Cover it with the loam of infatuation,
Smirk as I fantasize about the strong tree,
Grown from the waters of affection.
Days turn to weeks turn to months,
Not a single sprout above the earth,
As much watery affection I can spare,
Beginning to wonder what this is worth.
At some point I must reassure my plan,
Dig down to see where the seed has gone,
Along with my patience, the seed has died,
So I cast myself away to plant another one.
One by one, seeds die beneath the soil,
So much time to used and no result,
And many at once would probably work,
Then again maybe it’s my fault.
I honestly never cared for trees before,
Yet now it’s something I’m compelled to do,
But if the soil here is not fit for growing seeds,
I’ll go very far away if I have to.
Birds of Twitter flock together,
Different people trying to be the same,
The same people who despise their differences,
Similar bigoted notions that differentiate.
Because they’re all saying the same things really,
Saying different things in the same way,
In their attempts at dominance and false esteem,
And copied words to show how they feel.
Individuality is ill.
The good, the bad, the in-between,
Each with their own sense of morality,
But power exists where we place it,
And I will never place it where:
Ignoring someone is “dominance”,
Cutting ties is “development”,
Beauty exists only by comparison,
Wise words are derived from obvious observation,
And the list goes on…
Strong birds fly on their own,
But some of us won’t even hatch,
Their rotten yolks are covered by glistening shells,
But their shells were meant to be broken.
Individuality is dying.
A man puts his feet back on the ground,
Stronger than a lion, weaker than before,
The last of his litter, living his 94th,
His eyes and ears slowly fade,
Yet his feet remain above the dirt,
And he stands at the top of his fort,
His house, on a hill, as high as his will,
To carry on in a world pass his time,
But then sometimes,
Fate would climb the hill,
To bring him to the valley of the dead,
With a scythe to cut away his rod,
To prevent him from walking away,
And there will come that day,
But not today, his legs still trample the ground,
And with each laugh, an insult to the
stroke that made an attempt,
Surviving longer than most men,
A gallant walks the earth.