I wish to sit by the weeping willow
And stare at the fields.
Listen to birdsong
and wear a crown of wildflowers.
Why do we have to live so terribly,
In the city?

But I will meet you under the weeping willow
And you, under the hard oak.
Let us braid our hair,
and live in a cottage.
admiring the sombre hues
and the glowing Northern lights.

Because we are poets.
And we live up here.

Just like the shore isn't the sea,
What if my mind isn't me?
The personality I unleash,
and the thoughts that I think
are as different as gas and grease.

But what if my mind
is me.
But is pushed aside,
along with its opinions
its thoughts
To be the cause of those smiles,
and pleasure felt around me.

No wonder I,
am so different from me.
The calf that tries to be the sheep,
would be still be the calf
when behind the fence.

And that's enough.

Do plants thank the clouds.

Do plants thank the clouds for rain?
For their self-sacrifice,
and selfless choice,
to diminish themselves to let the other thrive?
For the strangling and decomposing of the very essence that makes their matter,
So that a plant could use it to flourish.

We walk through a garden of flowers,
but fail to realise the pain behind the beauty,
the death behind the result.
Do plants thank the clouds for rain?
Do plants thank the clouds for not their tears, but blood?
And for the decision not to live again?
Do plants thank the clouds?