It is winter here, and even the trees
Ponder over themselves
And their age rings.
How honest they are in comparison to us.
Ponder over themselves
And their age rings.
How honest they are in comparison to us.
A clatter of silence, still
And empty
Leeches away through
My surreptitious mind.
Burnt words cling to me
Trying to lull me with every
Emotion they thought they harbored.
I stayed in there a while, cut off
From the real world. It's good
To live in your head a while, you know.
Another form of therapy
(Rather than an expensive trip
To a shrink
Who will unwrap my layers
To find some nonexistent cause
of worry)
I feel like excess baggage
(Or maybe unwanted
Luggage that no one might
Want to claim)
I am a sorry state of wistful wishing.