Oct 2013
Laying flat on the shadowed ground
Of the meadow that holds my sanity,
I stare up into the glistening moon
As it glances upon the wet tree tops.
The grass scraping the back of my neck
Begins to freeze to that of an iceberg
With the cool crisp wind
With the shivering leaves.
My mind begins to wonder from my surroundings
To what clenches my heart at night,
To the devils that tore me down,
To the angels that tried hard to fix me.
My thoughts numb as if from the temperature,
Sending tingles up my spine
And horror into my mind
As all feeling ceases to exist.
A rapid breath escapes my chapped lips.
A rapid breath like the harsh wind
Now whipping through the lonely willow,
The one weeping loudly by my side.
The sky turns into a black mess,
Flipping from its once clear blue state.
Blinding lines fill the sky,
Imitating the roots of a flower.
But it is not a delicate flower.
It is destruction
As it hits the shaking tree,
Forcing it to crash onto the once sunny meadow.
It hits the dancing grass
With a bang and a thud,
But not before the scream,
My scream, escapes from my throat.
I do not fear for my life here; I fear for the willow.
The willow that is so much like my beaten heart,
The willow that I care about more then the voices
In the forest behind me that command me to run.
Getting on my knees,
I crawl across the mud
Until I reach the dying willow
That rests surrounded by clanging lights.
Stroking the trunk of the tree,
I let out a sob that catches in my tight throat.
The willow's brittle bark crumbles as I touch it,
Leaving a brown dust on the tips of my fingers.
With blurred sight, I search the tree.
I search it for any sign of life.
One lone catkin hangs from the side of a branch;
I reach for it with my stained hand.
Delicately, I wind my fingers around the dry flower.
Smiling down at the last thing to bloom from the ****** willow,
I pluck it from the branch and stare at the storm above my head.
I start to wonder what the thundering storm meant.
Tightening my sweaty palm, I crush the catkin.
I crush it with resent and a need for revenge.
Revenge for my ****** willow;
The one that will never return to health.
Of the meadow that holds my sanity,
I stare up into the glistening moon
As it glances upon the wet tree tops.
The grass scraping the back of my neck
Begins to freeze to that of an iceberg
With the cool crisp wind
With the shivering leaves.
My mind begins to wonder from my surroundings
To what clenches my heart at night,
To the devils that tore me down,
To the angels that tried hard to fix me.
My thoughts numb as if from the temperature,
Sending tingles up my spine
And horror into my mind
As all feeling ceases to exist.
A rapid breath escapes my chapped lips.
A rapid breath like the harsh wind
Now whipping through the lonely willow,
The one weeping loudly by my side.
The sky turns into a black mess,
Flipping from its once clear blue state.
Blinding lines fill the sky,
Imitating the roots of a flower.
But it is not a delicate flower.
It is destruction
As it hits the shaking tree,
Forcing it to crash onto the once sunny meadow.
It hits the dancing grass
With a bang and a thud,
But not before the scream,
My scream, escapes from my throat.
I do not fear for my life here; I fear for the willow.
The willow that is so much like my beaten heart,
The willow that I care about more then the voices
In the forest behind me that command me to run.
Getting on my knees,
I crawl across the mud
Until I reach the dying willow
That rests surrounded by clanging lights.
Stroking the trunk of the tree,
I let out a sob that catches in my tight throat.
The willow's brittle bark crumbles as I touch it,
Leaving a brown dust on the tips of my fingers.
With blurred sight, I search the tree.
I search it for any sign of life.
One lone catkin hangs from the side of a branch;
I reach for it with my stained hand.
Delicately, I wind my fingers around the dry flower.
Smiling down at the last thing to bloom from the ****** willow,
I pluck it from the branch and stare at the storm above my head.
I start to wonder what the thundering storm meant.
Tightening my sweaty palm, I crush the catkin.
I crush it with resent and a need for revenge.
Revenge for my ****** willow;
The one that will never return to health.
This is another poem I did for school. I put some heart into this, and it is like a part of myself. Or, my old self. I still mourn for the willow that had died in the storm. I would like to believe that I have changed a lot since then, but I still hold onto the parts of myself that were always important, including the meadow that used to hold my ****** willow.
