The life of a broken tree

I’m not the pretty tree the one everyone wants to sit under, or the one with the blossoming flowers I don’t invite the buzzing bees  

And I’m definitely not the tree everyone likes, I try and try to reach closer to the sun but keep finding myself in an endless circle stuck in the shade

I want to thrive but no matter how hard I try

I’ll never be the blooming tree    

‘Well at least you’re not a stick’ they always say

But would being a stick mean comparison to the beautiful trees wouldn’t exist

I would just be a stick not an apple tree or a cherry blossom I would be brown, thin, long, or small life could be so much simpler

I should stop complaining I’m a tree I’m selfish and I thirst for more  

No one dares to chop the charming trees, hesitation is their friend

Who wants to murder the sweet soul I shouldn’t be so bitter

But no one wants the tree who can’t grow leaves

My purpose is for paper, their purpose is for a swing for someone to sit on

To read under the birds nest twitting so innocently a flower to fall in someone’s hair

A family picnic to relax under someone to say “Hey, let’s sit here”

I was made for the chop I was made to be the wood that made the swing

The dead forest you read I’m like a moth you squish and they're like a butterfly wish on

In life you're compelled to follow the crowd life forces the butterfly

I can feel the tree sap run down my eyes I just crave their existence I want it all

Why can’t we all just be the same I can’t help it I desire that life, the life of the beautiful beauty and I envy the life of the boring beast

Oh no I see the chainsaw paper, magazine, book see you on the other side