Dripping Eyes

I’m emotional. 

I cry a lot.

But these teary eyes 

brown pools of mud,

drip only for a while

before they flood

into a heart broken pile.

 

Books, trees, paper.

Green, dew, sprinkles.

Crisp weather blue in whole.

I love nature.

 

Tissues dry my tears 

and suddenly my sadness

disappears.

 

I grab my journal.

I grab my pen.

And write.

 

With wood in my fingers

paper bound together

I scratch deep into the lines.

And when my anger starts to linger

I rip apart 

the soft pages. 

A masterpiece of art.

White snow littered across the floor.

 

Tree branches scratch back at me

their leaves brushing

gently on my window.

Green is all I see

peeking past blinds.

 

I watch them talk 

whisper to one another.

Sometimes I join them.

 

Words make me smile

gliding pencils across pure 

sheets and meanwhile

I forget why I was mad.

The trees comfort me,

and listen to my letters

scratch into them.

 

I cry for you nature. 

My dripping eyes feed you

and you feed me.

 

 

This poem is about: 
Me
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 

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