Reid@YWP

The warm bark of the weeping willow

The blazoned hanging leaves blowing slightly in the wind

The tree with the warm glow of the sun shining on its bark

I want to hold 

Both a pen and a sword, 

To find struggle within my words, 

To make pain drip from the ink, 

Trickling onto my palms, 

i, like many poets, have wondered a million times what it would be like to be a bird: soaring high above the trees, unburdened by life's banal worries. something primal and free.