lonely, I'm mister lonely

I'm mister lonely, as sit in my chair, I twiddle my fingers to the sound of despair.
the clock tick's away; as time is not abundant, I sit in my chair;
to watch my youth go by only like a fly.
This is an expression of my sadness, not just a silly poem; this is how a feel, inside-
an hour glass goes, the sand inside as a steady stream of water not to realize how it feels inside; I twiddle my fingers to the sound of that fly.
As I sit in my chair with that bare stare to Wonder why, I think of an apple. It blooms in the spring on a big, bountiful tree only to be eaten; but does the apple care?
It blooms, to be a beautiful flower, and the hour glass goes, it tips; and the stream flows.
The flower ages to fold to a bud, to rounden' to an apple, to be picked, to be eaten. But does the flower care?
The flower blooms to be an apple; the tree chooses to keep the flower alive; dose the tree care?
the tree lives wild and majestic, free of human like burdens. It lives a simple life. It feeds off of things that have long died in the soil; and grows to feed others.
It grows to feed the birds so that they may not feel the sorrow the tree may feel when he has feed to many. The soil dries, and that flower dies.
I ask the fly as it stands by my side "does to soil care?"
and the fly cry's the soil cares, for if it didn't, the birds would have died. the tree died for another tree that grew of it's seed. To keep the birds alive.
So as I sit in my chair to thank the fly, I say " to think that my only sorrow was that of my youth fly by." The hour glass stops and the fly dies.

Written by- Screw ball/나디아.