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Cecilia Jones Mar 2016
The tree smells like petrichor in a forest full of lost hope and memories.
The tree tastes like old berries macerated into a thick liquid.
The tree looks like twisted branches reaching desperately towards the sky.
The tree feels like gnarled bark beneath one’s fingers
The tree sounds like a bird which sings no more.
I had to write a poem for school only to find out I based it on the wrong setting of a book, so I decided to post it here. (Petrichor is the smell of rain.)
Cecilia Jones Nov 2015
Attraction* is a disease,
it scours up every moment you can give,
and then it takes even more.
Love isn’t real,
love is a concept,
an idea,
to make us feel safe and protected.
The only truths in life
are the lies.
Liars and fakes
surround all of those who tell the truth.
They take and destroy
those who wish for a better life.
They strike down new ideas,
and they steal from each other,
not realizing
that none of their inventions
are truly theirs.
I'm in a mood where I'm not sad but I want to write sad stuff, you know?
Cecilia Jones Nov 2015
This is stupid.
I’m upset over something
and in ten years,
when I’m fully grown
with a job,
a house,
maybe even a family,
this decision won’t matter.

Who’s going to look back and check?
Who’s going to look back and see what I wore
that one day in eighth grade?
Who’ll think that I was a loser?
(I mean, I was…)
But in ten years,
who’s going to look back and judge one thing?

This sounds stupid.
I know it is.
The worst part is that I’m stressing over it,
like people will actually care.
They say it’s weird.
I say, “who cares?”

I just don’t want everyone to hate me.
I know, that sounds stupid.
My friends say I’ll regret it,
and maybe I will.
But maybe
in ten years,
when I’m fully grown
with a job,
a house,
**I won’t care about it at all.

— The End —