The Woods

In the late hour of the August night, I go to the woods I run deep down into the caves I usually try to avoid I think about my life and everything I've done that was wrong I hit myself with my own hand until bleeding comes I trip on roots, fall into trees with branches cutting my face I pound my head into rocks until I'm dizzy, and I say: I told you many times not to get ideas about yourself I told you many times not to be yourself I sing: Oh, my love! Oh, my love never understood Oh, my love! Oh, my love thinks I'm in the sofa But I am in the woods The smallest bird flies to my shoulder, sings the tiniest song I gaze right at the bird. You're wrong, I say and shoot her down I think about my ways and why I limp where others run I think about my caves and how I can't show them to anyone I find a well, and down I whisper all my hopes and dreams. I dig a hole, and down I whisper all my deepest fears. I cover up with mud, secure the mud with heavy stones I see a pine nourish from it, see it grow sad cones Oh, my love! Oh, my love never understood Oh, my love! Oh, my love thinks I'm in the kitchen I scream back from the woods