Human

They say God makes no mistakes,
But I am certain I was not meant to be human.

I wonder how He messed up with me.
Did he pull a wrong switch, or stitch
Me into the wrong skin?
Did He know I was defective before
He let me live?
Or does Heaven need a quality assurance team?
Angels tasked to scan for mistakes like these.

Am I the only casualty, or is there somewhere
A human-spirited willow tree
Wishing to be free from a prison of bark,
The weight of drooping leaves?
The tree can have what’s left of me;
My scarred up skin, my broken teeth.
Make better use of it than me.

I’ll gladly take root, stand in place
Night and day.
No job or hobbies.
Nothing to say.
Let me rest and give shade
To those below, those who have always known
How to be human.