I'm dead tired and sobbing on my bed again.
They'll blame it on the drugs,
They'll blame it on the parties,
They'll blame it on themselves,
The truth is I've dropped the ball again.
Lost myself amongst the forest that is my thoughts,
And the birds in the trees are mocking me because they ate the bread crumbs, the bread crumbs that were my way out. You would think it hard to get lost in a forest of saplings,
Child trees just as I, somehow still growing despite mental states that no one will ever know about. Either way now I'm stuck, a gun in one hand and a knife in the other,
You'll ask me what they are for and I'll reply with nothing but a shrug and a set of words that will mean nothing to you and everything to me. You'll continue to voice concern, somehow appearing amidst the trees, but you could never stay for long, eventually evaporating into the mist you were made from, leaving me alone in the jumbled forest of waist-high trees.
They're all mumbling short confused sentences all vying for air and sunshine, all hoping to be complete thoughts capable of cognition, but they are being choked, stepped and trodden on, leaving them dazed and confused, roots writhing in the ground, and I could never tell what gargantuan thing lurked amongst the saplings in my chest, but it ripped and tore at everything it touched. It's a poison that bit into my veins and sedated my muscles.
It seeped into my everything somehow hiding behind a mask of cognitive thought, ever beyond the peripherals of sight.
It holds me captive, whispering lewd suggestions and anxiety filled words into my ear,
It tells me I dropped the ball, and it caught it. Hands on my shoulders it'll bite my neck over and over again.
Could you ever see it? The demon tree, wrapped like a vine around my neck, thorns digging into soft flesh and wrapped, wrapped just tight enough to clip the words in my throat.
Could you ever hear it? Replace my words with it's own, of course not, you'll only ever hear the two words most often used as a lie, but that's fine, because I'm fine even though its taken control of the left hand, the one with the gun and it tries, tries so hard to pull the trigger, but it can't, not yet, because I have a knife at it's throat and it doesn't know that the knife is dull and can't cut anything but myself. So I stand stranded, caught feeling small and insignificant, unable to tell the difference in the mirror between myself and the demons.
The trees are dying and so am I. Laying in my bed, dead tired and sobbing.
If I died now,
They'd blame it on the drugs,
They'd blame it on the parties,
They'd blame it on themselves.
They'd never blame me.
So if you are reading this
and are fond of trees
and it's not too late
take the knife from my throat
and just promise, you won't turn into mist.