i’ve recently gotten into the business of dealing good thoughts, taking my own daily prescription and distributing it to others. i’ve got it all, kindness, compliments, support, forgiveness. Sure the money's good but i’m weaning for a taste of my own. But you see, i can’t swallow my pills. My obsession with perfection gags at the thought of it.
i hate myself for hating myself, which is ironic in itself, but i wish i saw myself like i see you. i want a bear hug from self love, i want my skin to be embroidered with forgiveness, i want to change the viewpoint of my eyes.
Although but a tree, a little something more to me.
Of many merry memories, needless to say,
the best from my childhood took place in the evening.
Not a single night would ever go by,
that without fright I'd climb up my cottonwood tree.
I'd sit up there for hours, alone with my thoughts.
In attempt to count shooting stars,
I'd often drift into soft sleep.
But when I came home from school one day, something was off.
“Wheres my tree?” I cried. I immediately could tell mother
didn’t want to say, how he had been chopped down
and sent away to be made into something more useful.
I struggled to under...