0182

My broken limbs do not bleed,
grown from the ground from a seed,
cut at the bottom what you can see,
i was but a simple elegant tree,
if i was to turn into a pencil to write,
i would say things to earn my right,
paper i would become too,
and cut your shins off you,
we still live under the ground,
unable to move or make a sound,
a stump poking up from beneath the Earth,
I only hope what i become was the worth,
giving oxygen which is needed for you more,
remember i was here millions of years before,
one day evolution will switch off the creation of air,
for i only need the sun and would i really care.