My Trees Hurt

Today, in all honesty, I don't know what a tree is.
I mean I know what a tree is, but I don't know today.
Today whatever I look at, to my way of thinking,
Looks like my way of thinking. I don't like how this looks.
When I look at a tree this morning, in light of the suffering of others,
The thing I see must be made to pay
A debt it owes to the ones who suffer: deep inside them
As I look, my trees are doubled over
With a pain I make them feel, with a need
They're made to suffer from, with a sadness they take
Pains to feel, because their sadness will never be theirs.
My Trees Hurt because they can't feel anything.
It pains them to feel this way, because they can't feel it hurt.
The sorrow they rise above, with a lyric and wordy grandeur,
Is the sadness that settles in, branch by branch
As the days grow shorter, when a tree looks down on itself
Because of the sorry thing I've made of it, a sad
Little mound of leaves, and a proud, unfeeling survivor.
If this is what a tree is, only I would ever say so.
If this is what a tree is, it is only a tree as such.
It's easy to see it's only melancholy, a self-induced melancholy,
The kind of sadness that arises from talking to yourself
And being the one who knows what you mean.
I know what I mean when I say this,
And this makes me sad, it sets me apart,
It makes me feel like one who is set apart
Because only he knows the sadness that he means.
And if I take a drink or two to sustain this, if I sit down
Under the trees I mean and drink
While the small boughs grow grander,
This too I understand, it is something that I intended,
It is something of what I am, and only as such,
Because I understand this, and this sets me apart.
My Trees Hurt because it makes me feel different.
I take great pains to feel this, because only as such does it hurt.
Those who suffer, after all, need to feel that they are suffering.
If I alone understand this, it's easy to see how much I hurt.