Easy?

It's so easy to be a tree in the ocean,
to be a bed on a roof,
to be a flower growing from carpet,
or a giraffe, or an elephant.

It's so easy to be plain paper,
or a book.

But it's not easy to be an author,
a pink page,
that's cut into a heart shape,
or cut smaller to fit another's.
Or just to be crumpled
because you're not the right shade.

Or a mouse,
a rat
that everyone will shoo with a broom,
step on, or cage.

Or a tree in a forest of thousands that look the same.

And it's not easy to be a flower growing wild,
when people will pick you and say,
"There are hundreds just like it. It won't hurt to take one."

And it's not easy to be a bed in a room that is filled with dread.

It's not easy to be you.
It's not easy to be me.

But if we don't try,

we have no title,
no beginning,
no ending.

It's not easy.

Then again...

Who said it would be?