Beating Tree Poems

I was born to this world.

Worlds apart from my heart.
It fell into a river.
...

You told me a story one day & asked me a question the next day.
Well here is mt answer today.
No, I don't want to be you but, I don't want to be me.
No, I don't want to be you but, I don't want to be me.
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I am a tree,
Sitting on this hill,
There are no other trees,
Just some bushes and those things that crawl all over me.
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The people of the sky, do you think they turn the sky grey?
The ones with holy wings, do you think they make the birds sing?
The people of the clouds, do you think they make the clouds cry?
The ones with golden halos, do you think are always watching?
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The needle digs in deep & pushes the fluids of false love.
The white dust go’s in with a sniff & and puts you in a haze.
The lighter burns the fake cigar & fills me with fake joy.
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The wind is my death, yes I’m going to die in the sky.
The ocean is my soul, yes I’m going to drift in the waves.
The land is my body, yes I’m going to crumble in the mountains.
The wind is my star, yes I’m going to shine in space.
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My cloud rains upside up, my cloud hides its shadow.
The flower I hold is withering away, the flower might not bloom today or any other day.
If I show my tears, if I cry in their face, will it vanish in air?
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A bad apple
is what you might call me
A bad apple
is what i might look like
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I've dreamed of a place in the sky, were Angels fly.
I talked to my guardian with wings, he offered me the world.
He gave me wishes that would fulfill any desire, Angels aren't liars.
I hope it don't sound sappy, but I wish to be happy.
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There's a page in my book, I can't seem to read.
The pages slash my fingers, if I try to skip ahead.
To learn this language of symbols & letters unknown to me, is what I need.
The book of crying, is what makes red ink, until the day I'm dead.
...