The Color of the Leaves

When did you start giving a fuck about the color of the leaves?

The cut of the bark or the height of the trees?

When did you begin to believe you had a chance to be normal? When did it slip? When did writing start to stick?

When did your mind go, which way are you gonna go?

Do you have an inkling of why you exist, as though you could believe you were here on purpose.

We all know that we have no purpose,

We create our own through suffering and forgiveness