Trees.
They're strange things.
Trees are strange things.
When theyβre little, theyβre skinny, short, frail.
Itβs hard for them to hold themselves up.
They need to be taken care of.
Watered.
If they donβt get water, theyβll die.
But, as long as theyβre taken care of, theyβll grow a little bigger.
To the point where they dont need something to help hold it up anymore.
The leaves will grow a vibrant green, and the bark will be a pretty brown.
And itβll look oh so happy.
But then some people will come along.
Theyβll see the tree;
and think itβs pretty.
Theyβll pick leaves from the tree,
One by one,
Plucking them out like theyβre nothing.
But it hurts the tree.
The tree may not show that itβs hurting on the outside, but itβs hurting on the inside.
Still, the tree will hold itself up, even though itβs been plucked bare.
More people will come to pick the leaves.
The tree will be bare again.
But the leaves will grow back.
~
Eventually, the tree will grow into a big, grand tree.
With leaves that are too high up for people to pick.
Itβll be proud of itself,
For coming all this way,
Through all the picking,
And all the hard times.
But then someone else will come.
Someone with a sharp axe.
Theyβll cut down the tree for wood.
The tree will feel the pain
But it wonβt show it,
No.
The tree will go down silently.
No screaming.
No struggling.
Just silence.
.
This poem isnβt about trees.




This is incredible π
Oh wow Emmi this is just a masterpiece. I think my heart stopped at that last line, you truly have a talent π§‘π§‘