• in_fragments 8w

    Been depressed, fighting thoughts of suicide lately, thinking about all the trees I used to climb, how they're changing mostly for the worst. These cycles come and go for me- on Unbearable Depression Mode in this poem. But at least I have to stay alive to write a poem about dying. Even when they're horrific and sad, the words keep me here every single day. I can never stop for too long.

    If any you are experiencing these same scary things, be sure not to keep it bottled in. Talk to someone you trust and love, express it in a journal or a piece of art, find a therapist who can help guide you out of the darkness. You deserve to discover the light that's waiting for you. ��
    #pod #narrative #poem #thoughts #nature #trees #life #death #suicide #suicideawareness #depression #recovery @miraquill @writersnetwork @writersbay

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    Death Is A Tree In The Suburbs

    P̟a̟r̟t̟ O̟n̟e̟: R̟e̟f̟l̟e̟c̟t̟i̟o̟n̟s̟
    In my backyard,
    in this modern townhouse suburb,
    where the alleyways are grassy
    and venerable earth
    lies suffocated by cement;
    where evergreen pines and maple trees
    loom loftily over our homes;
    the scent of homemade barbeque
    wafts its way around,
    and children scream out in play,
    racing each other
    through their cul-de-sacs,
    circling back by the end of the day.

    Right now, the morning sun
    is arriving tall across our doors,
    bringing both disturbance
    and opportunity in its golden eye.
    My sight is becoming more obscured
    by the old tree outside my window-
    the one my parents planted
    when they moved in, 30 years before
    a future like mine was on their minds.
    It used to be so small,
    like every infant sapling, now it towers
    over every roof and moving horizon,
    clipping every sun ray
    behind the veins of large leaves...

    A grand, developed elm tree
    on the other side of our street;
    standing sure rooted
    next to the house on the end-
    the tree we would voraciously climb
    when we were loud, intrepid children,
    paying no mind
    to the old lady living inside; the one
    who screamed at us for climbing
    every time we tried,
    until the year she died
    and we had no idea. All we had known
    was that our favorite tree was back-
    because the old lady was dead,
    her home abandoned,
    and we were far too young
    to notice the peculiar change.

    Time doesn't wait for you
    to notice it, like the sky which races
    in circles at a speed too fast to feel,
    like the trees that keep growing
    without checking in for permission.
    Death is a tree in the suburbs-
    one too large to keep curated,
    so it is stunted or cut down; and Life
    is a pernicious vine,
    pestering the cracks in the sidewalk
    as it breaks its way through them,
    growing high and away from concrete
    or along the sides of wooden sheds;
    always going up, and up, and up...
    because nature may
    be dying at our hands- even still,
    it always wins out in the end.

    I wonder how high
    these tree branches will take me...
    Maybe up into the clouds,
    if I never, ever stop.
    Scaling their thick limbs, sitting midair
    is the closest we can come
    to flying without steel wings.
    What stands between Life and Death
    is air, and a body to get you up there-
    skin and bone, between tree and vine,
    surrounded by sky; the realm
    where life and death conjoin...





    P̟a̟r̟t̟ T̟w̟o̟: I̟d̟e̟a̟t̟i̟o̟n̟s̟
    I don't climb anymore.
    I've been too exhausted for decades.
    Now I grumble and bend and ache
    like the trees here do;
    one side of themselves trimmed
    completely away,
    half-dead with hardly a chance,
    and the stern winds pushing
    their branches close to snapping.
    Death is a tree in the suburbs-
    every one I've fallen from,
    every one that taught me
    how to feel alive-
    we continue to kill them,
    and I continue to die with them.
    It was all so different
    when we were younger.
    Now I helplessly watch it all oscillate,
    I get older, feel more ruinous,
    with less reason to be alive.
    The trees awaken towards the sun,
    they beckon me to climb my favorite one,
    they whisper this, "If you would die
    to see the beauty of this world
    one more time, then what have you
    to lose?"

    What have I to lose?





    P̟a̟r̟t̟ T̟h̟r̟e̟e̟: T̟h̟e̟ S̟p̟l̟i̟t̟-S̟e̟c̟o̟n̟d̟ S̟n̟a̟p̟
    Death is a tree in the suburbs,
    and I, a tired child, am listening-
    clamoring and ascending it,
    falling one last time for it.
    I climb, and I climb,
    going up, and up, and up,
    clutching the timbered boughs so tightly
    they etch imprints into my palms.
    I watch the final stage of the sunrise
    through decaying orange leaves
    and empty bird's nests,
    a hundred feet up or more.
    I watch the sky bleed its colors,
    turning into familiar, beautiful cerulean.
    I hear the birds begin their chirping,
    closer and sharper than from land.
    I wonder if they are speaking to me.
    I wonder if they are confused,
    intrigued, unconcerned.
    I observe the morning dew drops dancing
    on my wild wooden throne,
    forming like gems on my face
    and on the green grass below.
    One more breath, and the vertigo begins.
    I inhale again and feel myself
    smile as I sway, close my eyes
    and relax...
    then one more long exhale
    as the tree branch holding me
    abruptly snaps.

    It allows me to fall so rapidly,
    before my brain can rush to meet it-
    a ragdoll body flying downwards
    out of the sunlight,
    landing with a rigid crash
    deep into the immense shade of fate-
    with no one to watch it go but the birds,
    the trees, hidden insects, the sky,
    and the eye of the rising sun.
    It is a most cathartic drop for all.
    ©in_fragments