I built myself a solid shelter from the storm…
with rusty nails the builders had once spurred.
I felt no need, in design, to conform.
so i nested it in a tree, where i could feel as a bird…
but in life, it’s usually flood or drought,
and the wisdom of elders is often drowned out,
by the firework’s boom, and the flashing lights,
and those in the trees, lose the power of lime lights…
I told myself, others would build nearby soon…
but the lights afar, were the only ones that grew,
i know that I’m the one who looks lost in a dream,
but I’m just not like them, and I’m sick of trying to be.
I”m tired of calling out, waving others to come in.
for they all promised to join, but then went away again.
and perhaps, alone, and afar, is where Im meant to be,
though, the view is now watching everyone else become happy.
call me stubborn, call me extreme,
but i won’t leave paradise just to find company…
though without someone, what is paradise for?
and so both my storm and drought begin once more…
how much is paradise really worth?
and ought i maybe consider to conform?
for the sun encircles their world and mine,
and the only similarity, is the passing time…