The plants.

I have a place
in my backyard
where ivy rules,
where trees are welcome to spread their branches, and take over.
I sit on an old box,
light cigarettes,
and let the sun nourish the plant within me.
I like this place,
because I'm not responsible for anything
except the plant within me.
People like to think of themselves as work in progress,
Canvas with much white to spare.
But where is the art in assuming this?
I don't know what I am.
I don't think I've ever known.
I'm so tired of piecing together moments of my life,
understanding myself one quilted memory at a time.
Don't tell me you're fun.
Don't tell me anything,
We spend so much time explaining ourselves,
there's hardly enough time in the day to actually live.
And that's what I do when I sit here,
I answer to no one,
I feel no remorse,
I pay no attention,
I just live.