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ohellobeautiful May 2019
oh, but look at what grew

all because of the dirt
that they once threw
(our souls were meant
to bruise in galaxies too)
I belong to the Earth
The Earth not to me
It'll swallow me up
when it's time
Or maybe it'll share
with the sea.

We don't cultivate our Mother,
She plants us like seeds
Provides us with a nice clean bed and always pulls the weeds.

Not all the seedlings grow into what she would want them to be
So we're harvested and mother tries again.
Love your mother
Pauline Morris Mar 2016
Two seedlings grow up on the same plot of land
Wonderful black soil, not loose sand
So their roots gripped deep, so tall they could stand
So face to face they grew, each one knowing the other
As they shot up, their love soon bloomed one for another
They so longed to touch and entangle
With their branches they wanted to hold and mingle
And all the way to their roots they wanted to feel the tingle
Their love grew strong, and so did their trunks
They were watered and cared for each day by the monks
And the years slipped by when one final hour
Their branches could touch with a little wind power
A few more years slipped by and they now could embrace
And they were happy they had been planted face to face
They stood for centuries happy and content in their place
Sadly they thought that this bliss would last forever
All life problems they swore to endeavor
They held each other through storms and sunny weather
Until one day his roots grew weaker
With every passing year their situation grew bleaker
One night a storm blew in and their situation was dire
The wind blew him over and lightning set him on fire
She lost some branches trying to hold on to him
She knew deep down to her sap that now her life would be grim
Without him by her side she started to cry
And with every eternal year that crept by
Her limbs no longer reached for the sky but drooped down to the ground
Cuz that is now where his charred remains could be found
She reached for him with every single limb
Her weeping went on each day of the sorrowful years she was filled to the brim
The monks took care of her but they could feel her great sorrow
They prayed everyday that she would stand strong till tomorrow
One day an old monk took a close look at the tree
And decided the pain had changed her so much that her name now is different by decree
So my child when you lay your tired head on your pillow
Remember her and all her seedlings are now the weeping willow
She's there to remind us of the loss of great love
That not even her seedlings could rise above
Poetic T Aug 2014
The ground was turned
We sewed the field
Toiled though,
We sewed the harvest of WAR,
Seedlings of Death
Bullets were littered to flower
Different calibres
Bearing the fruits,
Those picked ripe on the branch
Armour piercing
Rounds, best not to drop.
C4 planted watered
Like a ripe melon it grows
Till it is plucked form the stem,
A war head hangs heavy
lest it falls,
Wiping out the harvest & more,
Planting the seed of destruction
Is a hazardous Job,
One wrong step
And a spoiled mine
Can take off,
Spill out in to the field of WAR
Feeding those objects
That would spill more blood
Once harvested,
This field full of the seedlings of **WAR.

— The End —