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Poem:

Withering trees are more fruitful.

In their shock they produce seeds, to leave something before they die.

In the endless search for reason, esape in the wrong place,

I chase this beauty. In dark night allies, in self-sabotage, self hxxx.

Pain paints beautiful pictures. Yet, rarely leaves memories. I constantly needed to refresh, to remember, reharm.

If you get isolated enough, there's only it. Palettes move from grey to black. The pain fills that void.

Then, when someone tells you to stop, you start feeling insane. Because you are, you want, you love that pain.

Withering trees are more fruitful.

In their shock, they produce seeds

But I was only fruitful

With seeds that cannot grow.