I would rather be the moon,
Just a spectator
To the world's destruction,
Not a part of it.

I would rather be a pencil,
The object of imagination
From which life
And ultimate beauty emerges.

I would rather be a star,
Shining and glowing
Until my day comes
To fly away.

I would rather be the sky,
Unfathomably azuline
And edged with
White, fluffy wings.

I would rather be a colour,
A splashing remnant
Of the joy that has fled
The empty sky.

I would rather be a forest,
A breathtaking castle of green
Flanked with redwood towers
And mighty oak walls.

I would rather be a word,
A window to the soul
That weighs more than
The poem it contains.

I would rather be a raindrop,
The tear I've always wanted
But can never seem able
To cry.

I would rather be a blackboard,
Mirroring the thoughts
Of the students staring
Into my blank expression.

I would rather be a breath,
Just a simple, summarizing sigh:
A sign of the the life
That no longer lives in me.