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Reece Mar 14
A tree sits in the middle of a forest,
Hydrophobic,
It fears the rain.
Its bark is coarse,
Its roots withered,
It has no leaves,
And its branches point down,
Toward the ground.

The tree does this by choice,
For it’s afraid of change,
And if not changing is the one thing it can control,
It’ll hold it to the end.
When the rain pours,
The tree refuses the water,
Spits it toward its fellow trees,
Whose leaves dance in the windy breeze.
They always saw the little tree as strange.
Why did it willingly starve itself?
What did it gain?
It always looked so sad,
All alone,
Yet this was the life that it chose.

As the little tree grew older,
It watched as its fellow trees grew tall,
And oh, so green.
Their changing leaves,
Their branches and berries,
That the birds would love to eat.
How it envied,
Oh, it envied.
It uprooted itself,
As its dying roots clung to life,
It walked all on its own,
To find another home.

It started to wonder if the rain was worthy of his fear,
Or if it was overthinking–again.
Was the future a mountain or a molehill?
Only time will tell.
How the little tree wished it could control every detail,
Save itself from suspense,
Always knowing what comes next.
Unfortunately,
Life doesn’t work that way,
A lesson the tree would have to learn,
And accept,
To find brighter days.

The tree planted itself in a garden,
Filled with flowers,
Of many hues,
Reds,
Greens,
Yellows,
And blues.
Even though the nearby birds,
Would chirp and coo,
It did little,
To ease the little tree’s
Lonely blues.
Yet as it gazed,
Amidst the pretty colors,
Of the flowers,
He thought of the fellow trees.
He wondered,
If this was the way life was meant to be.
After all,
These flowers would die come winter,
And grow again come spring,
And they would be just a goregous,
And marvelous,
The second time around.
Eureka!
Purpose and acceptance,
Finally found.

The little tree looked to the sky,
A thunderstorm was on its way.
He could hear the crackle of the lightning,
As a house was set unto a blaze.
The tree tightened down his roots,
He wouldn’t be afraid.
Perhaps if he believed,
He would be okay.
After all,
The other trees thrived off the rain,
It caused their leaves to grow,
And eased their decay.
Perhaps,
He was running from the wrong thing.
Perhaps,
His biggest villain wasn’t change.
Perhaps,
Life would be okay.

The rain came like a hurricane,
And the tree absorbed the water,
Having starved and thirsted for so long,
And as the sky cleared to the sunshine,
He heard the bird’s sweet songs.
His leaves grew majestically,
The berries tasted so sweet,
The birds who ate them,
Devoured even the seeds.
The tree felt fulfilled,
He had found his place,
And though he still feared the future,
And change,
He believed everything would be okay.
Going back to my normal style for this one. 16 years old. Wow, it's hard to believe. This poem highlights how I feel about the world about most things. If it isn't obvious, the tree is me. I'm anxious about most things, constantly fearing I'll fail. Driving is the worst though, too much power in my shaking hands. Hope you guys like this one!!
I wish I could tell you,
and have you understand—
that you are you,
and I am me.

We put so many years between us,
and in all that time, you’ve changed nothing,
while I’ve had to change everything about me.

Just please understand—
I am a locust,
and you are a tree.

I lay dormant for years,
by your side, if only by circumstance.
I shed my skin again and again,
while you sat still—
unrelenting in your ways,
unmoving through the seasons,
resistant to the surrounding decay.

I pray you understand,
as I only have this to say—
you and I were born in the same forest,
and you expected me to stay?
Evangeline, on the soulless night of February, I continue growing my broken wings. I remain sentimental, wasting my tears away. When I look at you, all I sense is the growing impatience that I will never be able to sit with you.

Even if I bloom with these wings and my graceful tears, I don't believe you will hear my silent pleas and whimsical, hopeful yearnings.

I am a tree with seeds of sadness buried deep in the earth. A rotting fruit of desires. I could never be as majestic as you, chère Evangeline. I am eloquently silent, with my lips tightly shut; I am a crumbling mountain, and madness slowly decapitates my light—but make it poetical.

Make my sadness profoundly graceful. Make my body arch like the slipper orchids. Make me a beautiful yet distant star, Evangeline.
princess and the frog was one of my favorite disney films, and I can't help but also wish on the evening star, evangeline, in hopes my wishes will come true too.

let down - radiohead
m Feb 15
dialed a number pulled from my chest
your voice made a sound i already learned

i lie on my bed like a tree in the woods
leaning and reaching to cross branches with you

notification sound like a bird safe in it’s house
my eyes only look up by your side

i love u
being in love is cool
Sapling, a fragile reaching,
towards the sun's insistent call.
Woods cradle the tender green,
leaves unfurling, a soft whisper
against the rough bark.
Greenery spills, a vibrant stain
on the earth's dark canvas.
Roots, tenacious fingers, grasping,
anchoring, a silent conversation
with the soil's hidden depths.

Branches, arms outstretched,
a latticework of shadows,
sheltering secrets whispered
on the wind's breath.
Timber, the heartwood's strength,
a testament to time endured,
seasons weathered, storms survived.
Forest, a living tapestry, woven
with rustling leaves and silent growth.

Leaves, a symphony of color,
shifting with the sun's slow dance.
Gold, crimson, a fiery farewell
before the quiet sleep of winter.
The cycle continues, a rhythm
unfolding, a timeless ballet
of life and death.

Sunlight, a golden cascade,
filtering through the canopy's embrace.
Each ray a promise, a whisper
of renewal, of warmth, of life.
Roots, a tangled embrace,
drawing strength from the earth's core.
Branches, reaching for the heavens,
a silent plea, a quiet prayer.

Twilight descends, a hush falls,
the tree stands sentinel, guardian
of whispered dreams, secrets held
in the rustling leaves.
Forest's heart beats softly,
a symphony of whispers, a chorus
of life, a testament to time.
Timber's strength, roots' embrace,
leaves' gentle sigh, a story told
in the language of the woods.
From my lesson in Picadilly's Write the Poem
Jaci Feb 10
Up on the hill there's a plastic tree,

Are you here with me?

Is it another dream,

Or are you close to me?


Let’s set out at sea,

Spree to where you're close to me.

Cause you are my love,

My medicine that turns me into a dove.


When you're close to me,

In the submarine,

Does anyone know, love?

Or is this another dream?


If you can't get what you want,

Then come with me.

Close to me,

Like the plastic tree.


Up on the hill sits a manatee,

Drifted far from the sea.

Sitting with the plastic tree,

Are you here with me?


Just looking out for the day,

Just a dream but wont you stay?

Cause when there's a plastic tree,

You're close to me.
Series of poems based on songs.
Song: MELANCHOLY HILL
Sophia Feb 9
Taken by reverence
Standing in the presence
Of great and ancient beings.

Dressed in vines
Have lived many lives
Firmly rooted in Earth's will.

Upwards they grow
May it be slow
Follow the blueprint beneath.

Bound by the flow
Of nature's ego
Traversing the chasm of time.
The breaking,
of that, final branch.

That, unmistaken,
crunching, chance.

The twist,
that teased,
the gritted crush...

...of bitter unease.

Blood, like, sap, aching,
pouring out, unstanched.

The forgotten cut, forsaken...

...of rotten, felled circumstance.

Feels, as though, inhumane, is everlasting.

To heal and grow...

...after falling, from a baned tree, ungrasping...

...is the toughest ask in life's chase romance.

© poormansdreams
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