I write my poems for who to see?
No one sees them but me.
Dreams written in a seam.
Heavy and bad like cream.
No one sees but my tree,
lookin in on me.
I wish they could make me free.
But what is free to be?
An American with a 40inch TV?
Unfettered access to the sea?
Nope, just the realization im no more important than a
flea.