speak softly

a cry

I am sick.
And I am needy.

And the woods seem like such a lovely place to lay in,
make my bed,
and die in it.

I don't know what I expected.
To be born with dread,
crying a solemn tune that only mothers know,
yet only my mother could kill my lungs,
and quiet my breath.

I am tired.
I hear the trees call-
an olive branch of sorts touching my cheek,
the dove sat upon it begging me to sleep.
I know nothing else but to cry.
It is the very thing that brought me to life,
and the very thing that will act as my lullaby.

And the moss beside me begs the question,
have you ever lived?

And I look inside at myself.
Nearly collapsing in,
seeing every strain of humanity threading my body to the forest floor.

I have not.

The lichen starts to unfold,
making the trees bare and my stomach turn.
Maybe it is my time,
but I assumed such before.
All I beg for is the dove.
Peace becomes of me.
But as soon as it comes, it must go.

And now I wake in my bed,
which reeks of self pity.
The floor of my room is a cracked mosaic of lost energy,
forever lacking will.
I will lose my breath until I know the forest floor.
I will end myself in my dreams until I awake with the moss next to me.
I am nothing to this earth-
I am lackluster atoms making a body.

How can I be loved as such?
How can I build a life of prosperity,
if prosperity can not break my skin?

A cry will just have to suffice tonight.
A lullaby I will sing until my eyes glue shut,
and I return to the forest.
My legs will have to shake,
My hands will just have to curl.

I am no different from the child I was when born.
I am strained down to a cry,
nothing less,
nothing more.