hopefully a tree;

 

I dug myself a grave I can’t get out of. The more I spend time in here, the more it feels like a home. I’m not used to making homes out of places because I’m a vagabond, I move from one place to another, one person to another. There’s not a space I can recognize as a home. It’s only about time people will mistake my slumber as a lifeless body;  rotten flesh. They will start to pour sand over me, and I will love every single grain that comes in contact with my tattered body. With each inch covering my corpse, the more I feel like I belong. I’m no longer an outsider in my own flesh. I can’t wait until I’m covered completely and finally feel like I have a home. Like I’m no longer rootless. Maybe then flowers can grow from my body, and I will live in them eternally.

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8 thoughts on “hopefully a tree;

      1. oh how beautiful, do you feel, love? for oh i look into your eyes so dreamy, only to slowly fall in love with the way you wear a smile! oh love, let me write you poetry, until the sky sings your name, everytime we’d gaze at it. oh love, you’re a rose, so lovely, only to wish, that i was the one, who planted you, only to witness you smile, ever after, for oh love, i’d love to, for oh you’re beautiful!

        Liked by 1 person

      2. you. your words. you.
        you, my love feel really beautiful!
        so, i wrote it, for you! and i’d love to write for you, ever after, for oh my love, you’re beautiful!

        Liked by 1 person

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