The trees have shed everything in defiance of frozen air,
Nudely and bravely they boast of their strength with a stoic’s stare.
Their leaves have deserted them, their fruit has fallen, they don’t care.
The trees in January stand strong in loneliness, and bare.

Is their ***** strength in the wind how they are supposed to be?
Do they welcome autumn, to rid themselves of their greenery?
Perhaps they don’t notice that the lives they gave have set them free?
They have lost something beautiful, but are they less of a tree?

Spring water flows into their roots, branches drop their icy weight,
The first sun-kissed buds emerge to witness the tree foliate.
But does the tree even notice this, its cause to celebrate?
The tree is at its life-giving most, but it does naught but wait.

The tree changes before me, and because of it I change, too.
But in that moment, when I love that tree, it feels nothing new.
And I think back, if the moment someone loved me, if I knew?
But I am too like the tree, oblivious to what is true.

A seed, set into soil, seeded to be
a great oak tree.
sprouts in deepest of hells floors
towers unto heaven’s door.
Many try the climb and fail
Not many live to tell the tale
Many try the climb and find
At the top they are forgiven sin.
Many will gaze upon the tree
maybe you.
Maybe me.
Golden fruit and angels high
branches of life unto the sky.
Pleasure below, swapped for the soul
Ecstasy traded for a heavy toll


Angels look down from tree branch high
Demons beckon below
One way yes, one way no

I am climbing from bottom to top
Although at times I am stopped
even when I begin to fall
I catch myself and begin again

That climb from Worlds end

I see him every single day. The longing inside of me aches for his acknowledgement. His knowing of my existence.But truly I should hate him. He is a monster after all.  I hide in the shadows of halls and argue with myself. There are people at my school who cannot let others joy pass through their sights. It’s as if their desire is to make everyone else weak so therefore they can maintain their power. But what is power that is taken from negativity? I will never know so therefore I will never speak up. I can’t speak up. No one will ever hear me or see me. No one even notices me unless I fall and cry or break when the teacher calls on me. I’m their daily amusement. My hands are always clenched in agony and my heart is always being ripped into shreds from vain conquests. Despite the tear in my throat my heart beats for the ailing souls of the forgotten. It knows what the others don’t see and hear. Despite my agonizing breathes of air I’m still alive today. How I can still walk with my breaking bones and how I can still see through the foggy lenses society has bestowed upon me is truly beyond me.

I cannot allow myself to speak. Speaking takes energy. I don’t have enough energy to simply express my being and then have my voice heard. My voice is quiet and raspy with edges of cut mirrors and thorny rose bushes. I used to be a lemon tree sweet and sour but golden and sunny as most people expected from me and came to realize and to be simply put that was their recognition. But then the hazy storms of dread pricked my fragile fingers and brought forth blood of ruins. I was ruined. But at first they didn’t care. They wanted to see me for the way they knew me and not the way I had became. How was it fair that she got the recognition from her ex and not I? Not everyone knows of my full story simply because of the sacred secrecy I have been cursed with. He has banished all thoughts of fantasy and left me as a beggar for mercy.

she grabbed a soft stone

and eyed  the skipping it does.

she inhaled the misty, fall air

and twirled her auburn hair.



she glared up to the canary leaves

dangling thinly on their limbs.

her flats tapping to the music making

of the trees strumming and shaking.



she beckons down

at the candy corn fronds

wading in the morning stream

like an autumn's dream.

Not often do I boast about my own writing... but this one is good. Perceive the darkness...
---
Longings

I long to hold a can of worms.
Corruption in my hands.
A seething rain of gnashing teeth
to filter through the lands.

Or moths to claim the skies and clouds,
in darkness they shall reign.
And silence shall endear the earth,
the fields and barren plains.

I long to view a memory
of blood, and heightened screams.
A wail of such regretfulness,
it lingers in your dreams.

As the days grew cold and quickly
life begins to freeze.
I long to be the life-force that
resembles your disease.

I long to be a single tree,
the last among the ruin.
Or maybe just a frozen rose,
the last on earth to bloom.