Trees.

They're strange things.

Trees are strange things.

When they’re little, they’re skinny, short, frail.

It’s hard for them to hold themselves up.

They need to be taken care of.

Watered.

If they don’t get water, they’ll die.

But, as long as they’re taken care of, they’ll 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 it’ll look oh so happy.

But then some people will come along.

They’ll see the tree;

and think it’s pretty.

They’ll pick leaves from the tree,

One by one,

Plucking them out like they’re nothing.

But it hurts the tree.

The tree may not show that it’s hurting on the outside, but it’s hurting on the inside.

Still, the tree will hold itself up, even though it’s 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.

It’ll 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.

They’ll cut down the tree for wood.

The tree will feel the pain

But it won’t show it,

No.

The tree will go down silently.

No screaming.

No struggling.

Just silence.

.

This poem isn’t about trees.