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Rated: E · Poetry · Dark · #2053273
A poem written at an age of dark cynicism when life seems nasty, brutal and short
Why don't I write about
trees and birds
flowers and love
instead of
Death
Loneliness
Heartache?

I don't write about trees, birds, flowers and love
I write against trees
with withered roots
digging
Continually ekeing
Dirty gnarled fingers
Seeking
into parched ground
Searching for comfort
life
continued existence

I write against
tiny birds
Dying
A wing broken
By cruel mishaps
Fate
And of dreams of never soaring
unspoken
Of predatory black birds
sneaking
Swooping
for friendless prey
Easy pickings

I write against flowers
Struggling against
Too many hot suns
And not enough rains
To quench thirst
So to bloom adequately
Where the harsh realities
Of bullying dry winds
Torture it daily
Daring it to making it
through
with roots intact

I write against hearts like leaves
that have dried up
Blown around
Brown
Shrivelled
nothing more
Than to be
stepped on
Leaving cracks and bruises
to show neglect

© Copyright 2015 RobPeters39 (jamoz at Writing.Com). All rights reserved.
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Printed from https://www.Writing.Com/view/2053273