Poetry
We are All Trees I have thoughts. Lots of thoughts. People say I have a creative mind, that I think of things that some could never imagine up for themselves. That is why my words are on this page. Sometimes I imagine what an inanimate object would say to me if it were to speak. This desk upon which I lay my laptop being one of them, I imagine it is happy. It was carved out from a tree. Happy because it was to be recreated and set a new. It has been placed at this destination at some unbeknownst time. Dust has covered its craftsmanship, and I cover the dust. The dust reminds me that time passes and we cannot physically stop it. Sure, we can stop ourselves from living in the present. But what good does that do? I like the dust’s texture under my palms as I write. It reminds me of dirt. The memories carried by dirt as an object in my memory. We all have a story. Just like how we all have fingerprints. Our stories are our iden...