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I've Yet To Even Be...

Imagine a tree, swaying in the wind shyly,
coinciding with those withered, bright blue, baby eyelids.
The tree that watched me flee,
get up and walk blindly,
to a path I made up kindly
through a wood of fresh confusion
and leaves that smelled of parsley.
I walked, found the fork in the road, and talked
to the sky and asked him why
a soul so lost had to make it by?
Without the tree I surfed over the seas
and almost learned that my lucky number was three,
to count my sheep,
and control my dreams,
to be that pod covering that baby pea.
I was free to express, the need to bless,
a perfect body, untouched chest,
to life outside that huge oak tree
that captivated my precious eyes, sweetly,
and saw me fly like a bumblebee
on his first deceiving ride to find the key.
That trembling and sun kissed reality
perished somewhere inside where you couldn’t see
past the pretend cookies and pretend tea
and the bike falls that scraped those perfect knees.
So pure and strangled that they cried to bleed
and imagined that tree,
who would wait for me,
to cross that path that I made blindly
and come home to serenity and utmost purity.
Colorblind, I saw the things I couldn’t see,
when I was that acorn flowing far from the tree,
so brittle that I couldn’t smell the parsley.
I’ve yet to smell the parsley.
I’ve yet to even be…



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