Distracted by the shape of the leaves,
Inspired by the height of the trees,
A child with fresh scrapes on my knees
Part of the world I wanted to be.
Cultivating miracles in my mind,
And compassion for all other kinds,
Nurturing love I always could find,
From those whom my life had happily signed.
Until others my age deemed me a fool,
A punching bag they had right to use,
To selfishly make themselves feel good,
Fathomless how they could be this cruel.
Cut open my self-love drained away,
Left instead a gaping hole of hate,
Reality only showed me shame,
So in fiction I hid and played.