Like a release, of sorts—

A scream of all cells,

A microgasm of everything.

That's just the poet within me saying:

It's alive.

Look,

No one explains what it is,

And maybe I don't know what it means.

But for me,

It is to sit by the car window,

To look at trees

And not really see them,

Never honing into the speed at which they move

But focused on their relentless scream.

It's like living a paradox:

Unconsciously awake, or consciously asleep.

They are dreams

Waiting to be put to words,

But not most of us do.

For some,

It's honey dripping from their tongue.

For some,

It's a chemical scent—

Drenched

On a pen's tip.

But for many,

It's just fast trees,

Screaming from ear to ear.

And still,

No one explains it.

Maybe no one must

Yet to put it to words:

It is being alive