WillowThese willow trees breathe, child.
Can you hear them?
They sway and reach out to you.
Standing among the crowds of other trees.
I am a willow, child.
People will see me as beautiful in my sorrow.
They will call me "weeping" for a reason.
I sway among these other trees,
And I see how green their leaves are.
I wonder if their sap runs cold like mine does.
I wonder if their hearts beat slow, scared.
I wonder if their backs curve the way mine does.
I am a weeping willow and these tears,
They mark me as beautiful in the eyes of art.
Photography will capture moments of my pain.
My mother says her favorite picture of me
is from when I was sick.
She says that it's because she sees how true it really is.
I cannot hide the bags under these eyes when I have no foundation.
Foundation for my skin, foundation for my lies.
I have to understand that I need to lie,
before I can tell you that I've slept tonight.
I am a weeping willow over these tranquil waters.
I will breathe in what kills you and try t
Poison: A Rich Man's HealingThere's something doctors always forget to tell you about medicine.
In the long-run, what is it really but selective poison?
Sometimes, it aims to make us feel all better inside,
But arsenic is good for our pumping hearts, too, isn't it?
The doctors always tell you about side-effects like they're just that.
Speaking from these experienced lips, I paint a different picture.
I paint for you the picture of a girl in a clinic.
She sits in a cushioned leather chair as they pump chemicals into her arms.
They forget to tell her that it's an acid.
"Aggressive" treatment, they called it.
And aggressive is exactly, I suppose, what it should be called.
This is my medicine but it feels like poison.
I feel a chill in my veins as it infuses over the course of an hour.
The clock ticks slow when it comes to pain, I've always noticed.
You may not remember the hours of agony,
But that does not make them move faster while they occur.
There were warnings in the paperwork about a high fever.
RealismI've got something of a reputation for being bitter.
Something of a reputation for being snippy and cynical.
Sarcastic, some people call it.
Realistic, comes the voices of others.
Some of them tell me that I need to tone it down.
"First impressions are important,"
They tell me, "and you don't want to be that bitter one."
Some people tell me that they admire my bitter realism.
I tell them it's not realism, not really.
No one truly sees the world through realistic eyes.
Realism is an illusion, because isn't it true that reality is a matter of perception?
We're all tainted by mismatched optimism and someone else's negativity.
Someone else's optimism and our own negativity.
We spread these opinions through the world like a cure laced with poison.
It sits in our systems until we take in the cure and forget,
Or the cure wears away and the poison takes hold.
We either fight to cure the darkness or embrace it.
Let it twist little bits of our personalities until reality seems shadowy.
We see mo
Into the FireWe tire of standing on burning feet,
Watching our skin blacken and curl.
We feel the pain of every day spent on the metal.
We warp to stick to it.
Some are charred too much to ever move again.
They lay back, letting themselves become just another piece.
Just another thing to be scraped out of the pan,
And thrown away.
We tire of sitting here waiting for the pain to stop.
We are lit up and burning through every inch of our skin.
Relief for our feet means agony for our hands.
Now, my brothers, it is time to fly from this frying pan,
And into the fire.
We will charge to the depths of the inferno.
Face the hottest flame it has to offer us.
It will not be easy and we may not make it,
But this life of ours is precious.
Use it not to burn in this flame for hopes of longevity,
But instead allow it to be a buffer for someone else's existence.
Allow your life to be the end of their suffering,
So that their children will one day look at their charred feet and ask,
"Mommy, how did you get those sc