Trying to Hang a Hammock Between Two Charred Trees

Glorification for ugly simplification.
Wash your hands—
they are filthy.
I cannot understand.
When I am with you, I feel like
I am eating sand.
All around, others have
a hammock to swing,
but I stand,
pondering a way to float
between trees, but all I see are broken limbs.
When I need you to, hold me
so I can swing,
but my trees seem to be burning,
charred black
and broken limbs.
Who let you fall apart
and throw me away?
Don’t you hear them too?
They are laughing as people like you
hold the hammock,
rock them back and forth,
effortlessly creating a beautiful show.
I kick around mulch
in broken and busted shoes
from walking miles around you,
looking for a new branch to hang on to,
but time is only being
wasted,
drained,
constantly left in pain.
Just call my name.
Act like you even care to explain
who and what allowed
you to bust my candy cane
abrupt and quick,
left kicking mulch
as it rains.
I’d rather drown
in the most beautiful
mountain lake
than wait
and spend one more minute
in this absent pain.