this is unfinished
Growing up is the hardest part.
Growing up, growing out, and growing in.
Carving in, and carving out;
like the initials in the weeping willow down by the pond.
But the willow is not green, the weeping has turned it black.
The initials are still there, but dry and decaying bark
replace the heart that is so cliche.
[--this is the part that's unfinished--]
So I run in fear into the meadow
choking on the fog that is setting in.
It enters me like wind into a sail,
collecting in my lungs and tightening my breath.
But I keep walking, for I know the distance is not far,
and if I just keep pacing the tree will surely disappear.
Looking over my shoulder, I see I was not right;
although the tree is out of reach it still remains in sight.
So I sit right down within my fog,
turning my back to find some peace.
The fog it is very protective of me, and asks nothing in return.
Numbness it gives, and solace it rapes,
but vision it takes just for free.