As I exit my thoughts
From the land of the unreal
To the real.

I stain them down on paper
For all to see
For the trees to know my anger.

The paper-cut down tree - feels my anger
As I press this ball point pen
Harder and harder until it bleeds.

This paper-cut down tree - only needs me,
To express its sorrow
For it speaks through me

For it has been cut or chopped,
And sawed and scraped of its bark
And pulpified,

And cooked, and pressed, and dried,
Cut again, inked before hand, punched,
Packaged, shipped, bought, and sold
Now old.

I find some use by pressing my ink pen,
To bring out some depth to one-side-of-two.


Uninterrupted, I was, for a day or two,
I sought out my forest…

…I only found a traffic-ed street
With the beat of Honk! Honk!
And is it safe to step into you?

Why is it that I question in this way?
Does my logic make sense to you
Or does it desensitize you?

I have only found me through me
So why do you continue to oppose?
Is it because you are stubborn?

So paper made tree, tell it me.

I found you,
Did you find me?
Yes, of course, we are meant to be
Human expressed tree.

Launch your essence through my veins
And it will flow to the leaves
And they(leaves) will carry you to tomorrow.

04/03/1998

Posted on 01/21/2010
Copyright © 2024 Michael Defries