Dear Mr. Woods

Dear Mr. Woods, can you let me out without ever letting me go, Mr. Woods?

The rain pours and weighs down your branches, now I'm soaked from head to toe, Mr. Woods.

Until the rain let's up you cam't get dry. So tell me, Mr. Woods, why should I?

Why is it me that gets to go and be whatever it is I choose to see

While you're trying to stand tall behind a deceptive wall which, for me, has chosen to fall.

At the edge are the trees that everyone sees with leaves of the most radiant gold.

But at your depths are the trees i both desire and dread. I mean, Mr. Woods, your leaves of deep red.

For it is not those of gold of which everyone's told that have me completely enamoured and sold.

But Mr. Woods, I was bold - now I'm both shaking and cold in what's either a desperate embrace or a choke hold.

Now, Mr. Woods, please let me explain. I KNOW you didn't invite the rain.

You didn't invite the snakes or the thorns in which your red branches are woefully adorned.

And neither, Mr. Woods, did you invite me. Which is why I'm losing sleep you see.

If I'm honest, I DID mean to go this deep. I wanted to explore, wanted your company to keep.

But I truly never dreamed I'd get lost, for it seemed like I could leave if it was darker than I'd deemed.

I didn't think I'd stay so long singing along in your sad song in a place I never thought I'd belong.

No one likes the cold and wet - not me, not you, not them and yet

Here you are: shivering and dripping so Mr. Woods, you can bet

I won't leave your branches bare, sir.

I'll grit my teeth against their snare, sir.

For I know, Mr. Woods, you didn't invite those thorns.

Some days your leaves are to me like a coat.

Others, a branch of thorns seems to come straight for my throat.

Whatever the case, a death grip or embrace, I sit here in tears with your hands on my face.

So again, Mr. Woods, I gingerly propose: 

Can you let me out without ever letting me go?

This poem is about: 
Me

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