I wasn’t born there,
I didn’t spend my adult life there, either.
I was only three years old, just a sapling,
When my parents moved to the city of the oppressive sun.
They planted me in the ground underneath the silent orange behemoth.
When I did grow, I wouldn’t become a desert flower,
Or a great tree.
The parched land would assure I grow into a cactus.
Adorned with thick skin and thorns,
I couldn’t get close to people.
Exhibiting a quiet stillness,
And a reckless regard of others strife,
The cactus became the desert.
This cactus now leaves the cities guarded by windmills.
The teetering, turning wind towers power unknown places,
Most of which I’ll never see.
Farewell warmth, Goodbye windmills,
The child of the California Ra needs to uproot to grow.
I’m surrounded by fucking boxes;
You know the shitty, brown, cheap, packing kind.
It reminded me of a childhood thought.
“I’ve never been delighted in owning a lot”
In adulthood, I can afford all I’ve ever wanted.
So now I’m enveloped by crap I never needed.
They don’t make me happy.
It’s quite the opposite.
As I own less, I become overjoyed.
Possessions are a burden
and only clutter.
I strive for a life free of litter
But I am also a simple man.
Prone to buy without thinking,
Without regard to myself.
So, I am caught in the balance,
Wanting to have nothing but having everything I want.