agony.
department store Christmas trees
don’t even come close to the real thing, sweet heart
they sell wildly during the ankle biting months of December
mostly the people who don’t care enough to go pick a real one
to cut it down and put it in a loving home
but don’t fret, I have a fake one for myself
i can hear blissful screaming coming from the forest
it takes a while to get there, but I go anyway.
when I get there, I do not hear anything
instead, I get lost in the magnificent sparkling leaves
like jewels
and I surround myself in those jewels
climbing trees and slithering among the branches
sitting on the broken stumps
carressing the leave-spattered ground
it feels nice.
YOU ARE READING
untitled.
PoetryStars and painted candlelights are the only things that bother to keep me sane, these days. But it's okay. I know you're trying. (My first posted poetry collection)
