Almost everyone I've ever met
is nothing like me.
I can see it in their eyes -
what's going on behind those
closed doors is so different from I.
Some have leaves rustling,
their thoughts shed by seasons;
others, just mere feathers,
flying away without them.
Glitter can coat their mind,
consuming them with sparkly thoughts,
But more have solid concrete;
stuck in their habitual ways.
Sometimes I see stones
as heavy thoughts tumbling and scraping.
Rarely,in the greats, there are stars
Leading the way among others by some internal compass.
But if I were to describe my own
insides in this way,
it would be trees growing in quicksand -
life struggling to survive in a sinkhole.
The thoughts are the limbs that
slowly push out of the ground
and are tainted by knowledge of darkness.
But the tree is not gone, you see,
rather, it is still in existance,
hidden;smothered, but there.
And after all these years
Almost everyone I've met
Is nothing like me.
