Somewhere in the local park, in a place where nobody looks, There’s a tree growing, quietly and slowly. It’s not a very big tree at all. It’s surrounded by others, their massive trunks blocking the view of it.
I always give it plenty of water, A bit of fertiliser here and there, And I always make sure it gets enough sunlight, despite the other trees. But even so, it’s still just a tiny little tree, Hardly noticeable amongst the brush.
Sometimes I wonder if there’s a point to it. Why is that tree still there? Nobody ever comes to this part of the park. And it might look nice, but It’s just too tiny and too small, Too surrounded by the other trees To even be noticed by most.
I wonder – Will it just stay a tiny tree? Will it ever grow big enough? Or will it live out the rest of its days, A tiny little insignificant tree, Which only I seem to care about.
But still I come back to water it, to keep it alive. I don’t know why I do it anymore, But I know that nobody else will.
My muse is like an excitable dog. It catches sight of totally random things and starts yapping and running around and wagging its tail and WILL NOT STOP until I write a poem about it.My poetry is sometimes based on personal experience and sometimes on other things. Aside from that, I enjoy video games (My favourite game series is Mass Effect) and the popular television show My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic.
On a small island cast away Lost in thought lonesome I stay Early stars shining in the evening sky Where am I, alone I wonder Why? Lonesomeness beckoning fear I see A magical book appears from the blue Emitting rays
Everyday I stand Bold on my Roots Giving you all the reasons to Live Feeding your Wards with all of my Fruits Even after all the Tortures you Give You need me today to build your Nest Everyday it’s not
The Seed of love planted by the river of amity hoping for an perpetuity life, Creating roots for the foundation of our love. The root of our love grows with a boundless destination in quest for vigor not to let
11 There is living after death, there is death before life, Ordinary living which is in scrambles of destituteness, Destituteness of idealism, of knowledge meaningful, of utter candidness. Dull realities of weeds, weeds of rampant ignorance, averment Of void words,
Travelling with along, stout dark man In the burstling city thoroughfare Talking incessantly about immediate enjoyment Of unnatural genre was of good old days, When we found ourselves shopping Delusion in cramped dimly lit economic pub Where the roaring music