Adore Something Dead

I wish I were a tree

During this time of year.

Trees of all sorts are praised

On all their bright colors.

There are reds and bright pinks,

Oranges, yellows, and brown.

Once a year, people stare.

People stop just to gawk.

And adore something dead.

I don’t understand how

People enjoy the sight

Of millions of dead leaves.

It is like once a year,

Death is seen as beauty,

but only towards trees.

If that thought were to keep

its meaning with humans,

Then I would be seen as

Most beautiful of all

For I am dead inside.

But we don’t celebrate

My lack of emotion,

Or anyone’s infact.

We lock them up in rooms

And say they’re the problem.

Are we? Are we really?




Counting Sheep

When I go to sleep at night,

I never remember to pray

Because the only thing I’d ask for

Is to not see another day.

If God had any mercy,

I would pass in my sleep;

Lost in my dream world

Happily counting sheep.