Tree

Those words that drip from my pen

symbolizes a feeling that burns,

burns like no other.

My voice will strangle 

the emotions that sank between the pages.

If poetry was a tree, then I would 

climb all the way up to the leaves and rest there. 

I would find myself within the lines of that tree.

I would whisper with the wind, letting each leaf 

fly down to the barren ground.

I would scatter fragile leaves on the earth so people 

can see the beauty among the 

madness.

For poetry us what I make,

and I promise to plant this tree 

in every open heart who reads.