I liken myself to a tree,
not one sitting on a shelf anxiously waiting to be chosen,
delicately removed, and planted in a cul-de-sac.
rather, one that sprouted serendipitously;
slowly swimming upward toward sunlight
until it reached the canopy of the likeminded;
towering over trodden trails
and the undiscovered;
collecting whispers of those who pass by;
whispering, whistling wind grazes me.
I shake and shudder,
in sync with all the trees around me, but
I grow unnoticed in a sea of those doing the same—
unattached; unabraded; unobserved.
if I fall,
and no one is there to hear my screams,
do I even make a sound?


hope should come with a warning label:
“if ingested too hard, it will become false expectation.”

microdose hope. 

sparingly sprinkle specs;
softly slice slivers.
sumptuous consumption consumes;
suppurates somewhere inside you;
skulking…until it
sneakily eviscerates you.
streams of rainbows spill out, 
seep into your blood-stained carpet. 

your pain becomes color,
and color is the deeds of light:
its deeds and its suffering.