Help me aged tree. My senses have all been attacked.
My ears are ringing.
Everything feels like steel bristles on my skin.
Sugar and fat are dust on my tongue.
Everything is the worst kind of pungent.
That’s not what bothers me most though. Like you, with your hardened bark and height and beautiful foliage for all to see, I’m mostly hollow underneath. Some birds are there but they’re on holiday now, and the mice scare the shit out of me.
When I look inside and see the space I really feel bad for myself, but then I feel bad for those who came to see something else. They come to see something that they think is there and so I fill it as quickly as can be. Flocks of these crowds snap and point and bask or something. I’m running out of ideas. Mostly, aged tree, I’m tired of pretending that I’m not carved open and empty as can be.
Was it my fault or something else? Where’s the answer to this equation? I’m sorry to say it’s just me and, yes, I don’t blame you for the frustration. If I wasn’t so color-blind I’d maybe tell you about my mask de-jour, but I am, I can’t, and basically the presentation was cut short.
You see I’m just like you aged tree: on the hill and alone except during peak hours. I feel empty and stiff and forgotten. I feel dishonest and sour. I can shout at you all night and there’s still going to be another day; I can try and try and try some more but I won’t be able to strip the bark away.
Help me aged tree, because I’ve never asked for help. I know you can’t and won’t, but I’ll ask you because I don’t know what else to do. There’s still no color but there is ringing; there’s still bristles, the pungent, and dust.
I wish I wasn’t me anymore, or that I could at least truly give up.
I wish I could rhyme better or grow up.
I don’t really wish though…. I just try and keep up.
Hey there, aged tree. I’m hollow just like you.
Except my pain doesn’t turn off, it just recycles itself anew.
***Featured image is by Alena Aenami