Birds chirping in harmony on the tree whose leaves get pink in summer.
Beneath the same tree sat I with a pen and a product of the same tree
The tree looks down at me. The chirping, the language.
Surrounding it are sacrifices that had to be paid that it may grow.
No. A mistake. I need to live to breathe, not breathe to live.
Or, do I not know yet that the pen is most beautiful when turned upside down
Like what should have been my cross while I hold on posing like a Flamingo.
Hocus-pocus this is if you have not known yet.
Although , I am trying to mean something.
Here I am beneath this tree. Sorry, I mean
six feet beneath this tree though still alive temporarily.
My delusion, my Chi I worship in my dreams before
My skin batters like this tree before me or above me
depending on what your eyes can see.
Breathe. Breathe if you have not before. Breathe
if your hearts is still in default. Breathe
if you hate things that must be,
And revolve around those that can not be. Breathe
if your heart is still made of void, superstition and toil.
Breathe with me. Breathe.
