Dead Leaves Pull Harder

Trees have leaves; obviously. Though have you ever noticed that sometimes it’s just as hard, if not harder to pull a dead leaf off than a fresh one?
This is sort of how life works; newer things in your life are easier to separate yourself from, whereas something that’s been in your life for awhile is harder to detach from. I thought to myself that all these leaves, are attached to trees that give the leaves life; even still, leaves die. It reminded me, that not all things that appear to benefit you, truly do or will in the long haul. As far as people go, we sometimes cling to what we want or what we need; in the most harsh of cases we lose our morals, our minds, our hearts, or our life. Sometimes it’s not even our choice to be a leaf on a certain tree.

There is an upside though.. While leaves die, and crunch under your feet during the Fall, don’t they also come back in the Spring? You may lose your color and be a detached leaf on the ground, but there’s a new bloom just around the corner. Maybe you’re meant to be knocked down to be picked up.

Truth be told, you can crumble like a leaf many times attached to your tree of life. You just have to decide whether or not to bloom again.

Needing Myself

It’s funny how easy it can be for someone to tune out the world; to just breath in air that only gets filtered through their lungs.

I’ve always needed that.
To walk outside and feel a cleansing air, filled with the smells of freshly damp grass, blooming flowers; to hear the hum of bark around a tree, or the whistling song of leaves.

I’ve always needed that.
To feel the brisk short strokes of pencil across a paper, to hear the soft flick of paint against a canvas, to see the splash of water as I clean the bristles.

I’ve always needed that.
To get entranced in pages, reading a story that isn’t mine, realizing my life is a subtle story compared to these masquerading characters.

I’ve always needed that.
To have the minuscule moment in time where the only person in my world is me, and I feel the grand flush of red across my cheeks as my energy refills. To know that I’ve come back revitalized, filled with jovial aura once more.

I’ve always needed that.
To be my best self for the good of others, I must focus on being my best; by myself.

NPWM Twenty-One: Snow White

She smelled of sweet grass and meadows,
Her words carried through the wind in countless bellows.
Her hair a crisp black,
Her skin a pale white.
She talks with me, and all other creatures,
She knows many people who act as her teachers.
Small little men like to sing their tunes,
But the hum turns somber on this afternoon.
A reflection is cast on our sleeping maiden,
She’s more pale now, maybe laid in heaven.
A warrior comes to wake her,
He hums no tune, but he brings with him warmth like that of fur.
He lay a fair kiss upon the fair maiden,
Who upon waking, had shimmering eyes of sunlight;
And all the colorful songs were brought back to life.

NaPoWriMo Seventeen: Bliss

There once laid jubilant flowers in my garden,
They laid content in their green escapades.

There once were blissful birds,
Humming the tunes of natures call.

There once were merry breezes,
Who sung the song of leaves contempt.

The delighted outside world seemed one worth living for,
Not a disturbed crimson mushroom could toil my day.

Yet,
There was a time when the mushroom seemed to corrode the surroundings.
It called for attention, begged for affection.
Sometimes the brightest things are not all they seem.

NaPoWriMo Nine: A Tale of Buds

I told myself, there was something to be said about others words.
Every syllable of a mouth vibration, every key note sung,
Is an important flower blooming on the vine of a person.
I told myself to not just take the words from the brightest flowers,
but look at the ill-gotten flowers, for they speak the utmost truth.
I told myself that it’s okay to have wilted flowers,
The people that have them often carry the most colorful vines,
It just takes time for them to bloom their best.
I told myself that every flower is unique,
Every flower has it’s dots, and it’s thorns.
I told myself that thorns don’t make the vines evil,
And the dots don’t always make the flower peaceful.