#tumbleweed - Hello Poetry

nothing has changed in years at least not when i look out the window and see the same sunsets i've been seeing every night when i don't want to be inside. there are people who were born looking like poetry pink toenails swaying to some soft song. there are people who were born looking like music hair flowing feet dancing to some wild jig. there are people who were born looking like a painting their skin harmonizing to every untamed color. and then there are people who were born looking like trees standing straight and tall unbending in the wind. looking like trees and feeling like tumbleweeds born to love and leave before the desert storm. blowing their way through life. people looking like trees and feeling like tumbleweeds tumbleweeds like me. my cracked toenails growing down into the floor and twisting for something to hold onto my hair growing upwards through the roof and towards the late afternoon sun and my skin slowly separating into layers of bark. every fiber screaming run. a tumbleweed born and formed into a tree no longer a sapling too late to leave too early to die. go home all of you and i'll be happy alone in the dark the only place where a tree can truly be a tumbleweed.

0

Aug 8, 2016

Aug 8, 2016 at 2:20 PM UTC

be-mccomb

tumbleweed tree

nothing has changed in years at least not when i look out the window and see the same sunsets i've been seeing every night when i don't want to be inside. there are people who were born looking like poetry pink toenails swaying to some soft song. there are people who were born looking like music hair flowing feet dancing to some wild jig. there are people who were born looking like a painting their skin harmonizing to every untamed color. and then there are people who were born looking like trees standing straight and tall unbending in the wind. looking like trees and feeling like tumbleweeds born to love and leave before the desert storm. blowing their way through life. people looking like trees and feeling like tumbleweeds tumbleweeds like me. my cracked toenails growing down into the floor and twisting for something to hold onto my hair growing upwards through the roof and towards the late afternoon sun and my skin slowly separating into layers of bark. every fiber screaming run. a tumbleweed born and formed into a tree no longer a sapling too late to leave too early to die. go home all of you and i'll be happy alone in the dark the only place where a tree can truly be a tumbleweed.

70

A tumbleweed, floating through the vacant desert. A comic scene for those in silence. A disastrous nightmare to those behind a big dream.

0

Aug 17, 2015

Aug 17, 2015 at 12:37 PM UTC

kenna-marie

Desert

A tumbleweed, floating through the vacant desert. A comic scene for those in silence. A disastrous nightmare to those behind a big dream.

3

I was detached so I could wander hand in hand with the wind. Who am I now? I feel so frail and my flowers are long gone. “Look what I've become” I say to no one as the buzzards cry. Their shadows circle me like dark moons in a galaxy starving for life — am I not alive? I've never seen flesh that was still carrying a soul, but the wind tells me stories of slinking through their hair when the world was young — I can smell their skin on its breath, its breath that’s carried me to the edge of the earth a thousand times to find only stars that those ancient, mysterious people worshiped before I was even a seed. Am I qualified to pray to those stars that have lead us to a thousand sunrises? Will they even hear me with this voice that is only a rustle across rocks and dirt, this voice that is literally nothing but a ... my soul who shapes the clouds who possess my dry body, and countless others all at once interrupts me and whispers yes. I smell the gods in its voice now.

0

Jan 13, 2015

Jan 13, 2015 at 2:51 PM UTC

ChaseGagnon

Tumbleweed

I was detached so I could wander hand in hand with the wind. Who am I now? I feel so frail and my flowers are long gone. “Look what I've become” I say to no one as the buzzards cry. Their shadows circle me like dark moons in a galaxy starving for life — am I not alive? I've never seen flesh that was still carrying a soul, but the wind tells me stories of slinking through their hair when the world was young — I can smell their skin on its breath, its breath that’s carried me to the edge of the earth a thousand times to find only stars that those ancient, mysterious people worshiped before I was even a seed. Am I qualified to pray to those stars that have lead us to a thousand sunrises? Will they even hear me with this voice that is only a rustle across rocks and dirt, this voice that is literally nothing but a ... my soul who shapes the clouds who possess my dry body, and countless others all at once interrupts me and whispers yes. I smell the gods in its voice now.

36