Under The Fig Tree

Lonely, mad and unhappy
Sorrow glares at me through the winds
Sitting under a fig tree my grandmother planted with her hands.
Eyes shut, ears open, taking in the air,
Cries of angels and screams of demons, but still no one cares.
My head filled with the thoughts and pains of my neighbors,
my daily tasks filled with someone else's favors,
my heart pumping ecstatically to only deliver nothing extra.
Pinching myself just to feel something better
Something that is for me
But strange to the common man
And unique to those who feel-feel what I can.
Transparent walls to stop my physical being,
climbing up from a grave-pulled down by my demons.
Always thinking-even in my dreams
going wild inside of myself
destroying something.it seems

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