Do it for me.
Look inside your soul—your entity.
Tell me what you see. Is it full of gold, or is it another dying tree?
Looks don’t define you. I will find you, then I\'ll look beyond you.
Because that\'s where I\'ll see pure gold become an endless cycle of bloodshed and dreams. i.e., a dying tree
You ask me what I see, but I\'m sightless. No, I don\'t perceive, but I received your kindness.
And that made me see what made you believe that we were blind to your leaves. and took you for granted.
Do it for me.
Listen to the willow weep; that synergy
The hollows in your trunk have left me spineless. searching for relief as the sound flowed inside you, but I couldn\'t hear the hallowed sounds that lived within you.
Ask me what I hear; do you think I\'m a deceiver?
The sounds I hear are not clear; they are foggy and dead (xylem).
I try to unhear the crying, but it\'s too built up. I wish I were dying.
I whisper to the willow, You are dying. I touch the trunk of the meek.
Do it for me.
Smell the scent of wood and promiscuity.
I was promised that my branches would stay up. and my life would be good for me. It seems that I have no more than one branch but yet you still chose to leave.
You ask me, Why do you feel this way? For what do you weep?
I sigh and bow my willows, for you wouldn\'t know of what I say. The reply is: You are simply weak, and you act very meek.
Please return to the seed we once spread, for that one smelled the finest.
I wish not to know what is weak, meek, or any of the words you convey.
If you fail to water me, then I shall not grow over ten feet. and this is the final say.
Do it for me.
savor my syrup, which the farmers took so skillfully.
Tell me what it tastes like. Tell me how it feels going down your throat. Is it bitter, sweet, or tasty? They left a bucket on; is it noticeable?
I watch the syrup leak out of my trunk, It flows onto the grass, and the ants surround me.
Its smell makes them come closer—too close. Unable to move the root is planted next to the gold. of which they so highly speak
The ants get bigger, the whooshing gets louder, and my leaves fall faster. The taste of the syrup was too bittersweet.
addicting and got me stumbling into another cycle of bloodshed but no dreams.
Do it for me.
Dig out my roots and leave me questioning. I ask, What have I done? I am a willow tree; that is all I can be.
Please take the syrup and the woes away from me. They wish for me to bend my branch and change my leaves. acting as if I am a loblolly tree. What more do they want from me?
Tell me how I feel. I wouldn\'t know. for it was you explaining my weeps and what makes me weak.
Hear my silence, for your ears are deafening to the truth. Breath in the lilies and the lies told to my hollows
Taste the flavor of where my willows weep harshly, waiting for a divider.
Touch, feel, and stroke my skin, which you\'ve burned to make gold. Granted, I deserve it, so axe me down, for I want you to
Do it for me.