Little tree,
You grow tired of creating mouse-sized shadows,
Lose hope when your leaves cannot cover a whole human palm,
Wither when your fruits are too small, bitter, and too unripe to stomach

As the other taller versions of you tower above, they steal your food and tuck you away underneath

It's hard to get noticed in a sea of fish so vast only the insects can fathom its size
It's hard to survive in a crowd of Darwin enthusiasts

Ah, so young, and so deprived of faith in success.
I have faith for you, tree. Brother, we are the same.
We all just want to make it.
We want to be one of the great Redwoods pictured in magazines,
They take all the credit from us

Don't worry, friend.
Together, we will break through the underbrush,
Show them what we can do,
Prove our greatness once and for all,
And stand tall with our comrades of the vast forests everyone knows by name.

You twinkle, and I admire the youthful colors, the whimsical smile you bring to my cheeks
You shine, and I reminisce on times of old, times of hot cocoa and Christmas music by Chicago
You glow, and I weep

**** you, O Christmas Tree

**** you for keeping these memories alive and lush, so vivid to the naked eye
I break when I think of pajama nights with lusted love making under covers of protection,
Silently loving underneath my parents' open ears
And the mornings with cuddling
And the nights with Elf and How The Grinch Stole Christmas

Why does my Christmas tree bring white hot tears rolling down my face?
Its beauty could make any malnourished child sing, yet it just withers me as I remember our first dance
          Yes, it was by the tree on that Saturday afternoon.
As I cry, I still cannot forget you, because you used to be there to catch these drops before they fell on my lap

After six months, you still haunt my every thought, in every waking moment I exist.
I am scared for myself-scared I will never go a Christmas again without the horror of our past-
          What will never be again,
And what was merely a Christmas wish impossible to grant


Is this how God intends to torture my broken soul?

There are dark times upon me,
While I stand here a victim of your unforgivable actions.
I feel the repentance of our love as a knife through my stomach, as it sinks deeper beyond the dermis- feel its blade turn horizontally whenever you return into my thoughts
I become nauseated by your presence,
Not of disgust-
Rather from the suppression of tears, fighting back weakness knocking at my chest cavity.

I'm angry,
I can't help but weep
I remember the times we danced, and we laughed,
And the aching feeling of confusion overwhelms my sanity.
I break when I see your unmistakable smile, your intelligent glasses I remember you despising but me adoring.
I swoon as you don your best clothing, for I remember you trying so hard to look your best
For me.

You threw me out like Wednesday morning garbage. I wonder if you weep as I do...
                  
                                           That's a lie,

I know you never would.
You have more important things to fill your head with-
***,
Beer,
Oh ya, and education.

Thanks for putting me second, you ******.

I totally understand after a year and a half that you would treat me the same as a disposable diaper.

I get it...

And what did happen,
Mr. McLean?
What happened when the music died?
Did they sing "bye-bye"?
Or perhaps something more tragic took place.
Did they cry?
Did they, themselves, die?
Not a tear shed, not a sound made as she, with grace, spoke her parting words.

For what good is dancing if there be no rhythm?
For what good are instruments if they do not fulfill their purpose?
What will the birds do?
How can we define a beautiful noise, "like sound to my ears"?

I think it wise to overestimate the sanctity of those harmonies we cherish with such intensity.
Practically a religion, we tithe our money for its funding, we congregate to listen together, and we recite its verses akin to a scripture.
Forever remember the day it died, remember it as a fallen war victim, as a martyr.

Only dying for what it knew best,
For what it was, and for what it did in others

Honor her with silence, for singing is no more.
Remember that it died with pride,
Remember that, as it sang its final note, it echoed,

                                     "This'll be the day that I die"