I Cry Over Meaningless, Small Things

I cry over meaningless, small things.
Like how the grass has the ability to feel like home only for a moment.
That before the pruritus settles in, I lay and feel as if I was the soil myself.

Like how the sky paints pretty pictures for me.
That is how it communicates; not with clouds or the weather.
By its color alone.
It draws my attention and I can help, but be selfish.
Selfish enough to think that the sky creates such beautiful images just for me.
Only for me.

Life so simplistic, yet so complex.
Sometimes I grieve the fact that I wasn’t born a tree.
Lively and possibly full of growth.
Set to only give and never receive.
To be an organism only gardeners, artists, and poets could understand.

I wouldn’t have to prove myself.
Prove myself worthy of being.
I could just show my pretty petals and I would put onlookers into a trance.
Until I would unfortunately welt, but even then, I would somehow still be beautiful.
Even when I’m dead, I will still be beautiful.
Even when you are dead, you will still be beautiful.
In life, death, and the in-between, we are all beautiful and worthy of being.