My soul is like a tree,
Always growing, trying to be free,
But at the same time,
Always shedding a bit of itself during the climb.
Its branches growing more twisted,
Turning every which way, stubborn and tightfisted,
With leaves so unruly, so unkempt,
The wildness seeming to tempt
Friends, family, foes,
Those whom I hold close,
Strangers, society, everyone,
Those whose trust I have not yet won.
All are holding tight,
Their fingers turning a ghostly white,
Pruning shears in their hands,
Minds filled to the brim with countless plans.
All hoping, craving to change me
To whom they want me to be.
In their blindness they don’t see,
The flowers blooming on this very tree.
While the leaves, so unruly, so unkempt, are all about,
And the branches are twisting and winding out,
It, no, I am still beautiful,
Far as possible from the usual.
The world tries and tries to make me conform
To its thousands of petty, trivial norms.
But I won’t change for anyone,
Won’t leave this place, won’t run.
The truth is I don’t give a damn,
Because this is who I am:

My soul is like a tree,
Always growing, trying to be free,
But at the same time,
Always shedding a bit of itself during the climb