Unfinished stream...prose...don't know what it is yet

It's hard to be raised by trees. Because time beginsto swallow you up and there is no more left of the knowing you had when you were once all caught up in bark and leaves, roots and needles, dark and light playing some twist of a game on your head, and then expectation arises in your later years for you to turn out just like them. Noble, strong, knowing exactly what to do. Roots grow deeper, trunk wider, branches farther, leaves greener year after year.

But the problem remains that though my relations seemed to mostly be with trees, as a young sapling my feet were never able to ground themselves long enough to take root.

And here I am like a wood-nymph without dirt and wood to return to, wandering about wondering what to do with the ageless deep understanding once I had when I drempt I was a tree, gasping for the sap that dripped through my veins, hoping that not all is lost because I woke up to find that my reality was actually bone- and- flesh.

Making sense of how to live as human, as woman in a world wrought with confusion about both. And still I find my mind wandering back to the green of my trees and finding solice there again, after all these years.

red book

beautiful day bleaches away the stain on my shirt, right about where my heart was pierced
and the noon day sun winks at meto keep up my chin; to bold facedly cry unsought tears, greif for love unmet after all these years, and i'm spent.

I'm done. I don't understand why it, my hearts' life and death, has happened the way it has.
old me says, "SEE! that is why you give up trying, you give up risking and hide it all away"

DEATH TO THE IMPOSTER!

Let love live. Risk it all again, I will not die from these wounds, I will not perish because of a broken heart.