Paper Tree

Blank pages flutter down from the shelves.
I knew them but never believed in them.
It's not like I was anything else but me
but here I am.
Life unwritten and hungry for some meaning.
Every word I try to speak gets caught up in my throat,
my heart being ripped out by these sentiments.

Looking at you in that cage,
that horribly metaphorical coffin,
I can't help but remmeber everything I have lost.
Every pain, every tear and every drop of blood
and you have the nerve to pretend everything is okay.
It isn't enough for you to spit on the graves
but then you have to crawl in.
It's not like we didn't hear your moans
and your slight effort at being a saint.
But we simply didn't care for someone so fake.

The pages fall like rain
and I forget simple words.
Basic patterns for life elude
because here I am, just me, waiting.
Waiting for what?
It is this steady rhythm of life.
Distortion in the sky and clouds swell in the sky,
ready to pour their anguish onto the land.

These words cannot redeem or salvage a shred of hope.
They will never restore dignity or placate a broken trust.
It is just these unnerving white papers,
devoid of deliberate purpose
and your touch.

I want to go home.