Beneath the Dead Tree.

Beneath this dead tree of a soul.

rotting mess of tangled agony.

falling to pieces, flimsy

and damp little particles of human feeling.

 

Slowly going cold, lifeless, no

longer growing...

nothing to learn from this anymore,

it's nothing new,

only more torture.

 

Leaves around the leaning trunk of me,

only decaying as the many tears I've shed

in vain.

I've shed those tears for nothing, they've done no

good.

 

Shedding tears does not change the pain,

does not prevent the pain,

and does not take the pain away.

 

Knots of anger are smoothing

out as this tree becomes motionless.

only a representative of what lies

beneath the dead tree.

 

Nothing human.

An empty shell for others to

take contorl of,

take refuge in,

take advantage of.

 

An empty shell for others to see,

to assume everything is okay and well...

 

When in fact, I am dead, just not yet fallen.

Sitting atop a spoiled ground and depressed roots

that are too stubborn to let me fall.