cedartree - Hello Poetry

i wish for a god helpless to save its world i wish for a god who does not make its presence known i wish for a god who cannot hear, cannot speak, cannot act because i would rather my god be unable to choose than to choose wrong.

0

Dec 20, 2025

Dec 20, 2025 at 3:52 PM UTC

cedartree

people-watching / bystander

i wish for a god helpless to save its world i wish for a god who does not make its presence known i wish for a god who cannot hear, cannot speak, cannot act because i would rather my god be unable to choose than to choose wrong.

9

can you tell me why the flowers wilt (even when i tape their petals together again?) can you tell me why the branches snap (even when i nail them back onto their trunk?) can you tell me why the bark sheds (even when i glue it on again?) can you tell me why it doesn't rain anymore (even when the flowers wilt, and the branches snap, and the bark sheds?) can you tell me why an ecosystem collapses, why my forest dies without warning? can you tell me why? and can you tell me how to fix it? best, mr. mechanic

0

Dec 20, 2025

Dec 20, 2025 at 3:47 PM UTC

cedartree

dear mr. botanist,

can you tell me why the flowers wilt (even when i tape their petals together again?) can you tell me why the branches snap (even when i nail them back onto their trunk?) can you tell me why the bark sheds (even when i glue it on again?) can you tell me why it doesn't rain anymore (even when the flowers wilt, and the branches snap, and the bark sheds?) can you tell me why an ecosystem collapses, why my forest dies without warning? can you tell me why? and can you tell me how to fix it? best, mr. mechanic

15

against my will— you have carved out a part of me to keep for yourself, to keep alive the old flame that burns with your hatred. and i— i don't understand why you feed a fire that scorches you more than me, why you engulf those cold enough to linger near. and i don't want to be your kindling anymore.

0

Dec 20, 2025

Dec 20, 2025 at 3:39 PM UTC

cedartree

wooden punching bag

against my will— you have carved out a part of me to keep for yourself, to keep alive the old flame that burns with your hatred. and i— i don't understand why you feed a fire that scorches you more than me, why you engulf those cold enough to linger near. and i don't want to be your kindling anymore.

14

every once in a while i am reminded that you are not exactly who i once thought you were. (like how a dandelion blooms a bright yellow, and one becomes two, three, becomes twenty, a hundred— they ask for more, more, more— and you dont quite remember what the grass looked like without them, but they never seem to leave you alone.) and sometimes flowers are weeds— and weeds can be pretty too— it's just that when the dandelions grow back every spring, they're uprooted into the compost again. (something tells me it’s better to not watch you sprinkle seeds of doubt over my lawn, but i'm still afraid that one day i will forget what it is like to admire a flower.) the garden of my mind still remembers the impressions you’ve made in its soils, still remembers the vibrant colours, however faded and spoiled they are now, because it knows that there is something so beautiful about the things that no one can understand. (i want to remember those golden fields of hope planted in my mind, how they stretched over mundane grass plains.)

0

Dec 20, 2025

Dec 20, 2025 at 3:26 PM UTC

cedartree

dandelions

every once in a while i am reminded that you are not exactly who i once thought you were. (like how a dandelion blooms a bright yellow, and one becomes two, three, becomes twenty, a hundred— they ask for more, more, more— and you dont quite remember what the grass looked like without them, but they never seem to leave you alone.) and sometimes flowers are weeds— and weeds can be pretty too— it's just that when the dandelions grow back every spring, they're uprooted into the compost again. (something tells me it’s better to not watch you sprinkle seeds of doubt over my lawn, but i'm still afraid that one day i will forget what it is like to admire a flower.) the garden of my mind still remembers the impressions you’ve made in its soils, still remembers the vibrant colours, however faded and spoiled they are now, because it knows that there is something so beautiful about the things that no one can understand. (i want to remember those golden fields of hope planted in my mind, how they stretched over mundane grass plains.)

27