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I have lived in your house of glass
The crystalline structure
Shattered
I gathered the remnants
My hands torn
My heart like the walls around me

The mud welcomed my wounds
The moss engulfed me
Embraced me
I collected what it gave
And built my walls anew
from the already published "I Swear I'm Not Sad"
My young, eager eyes lapped up the forest as fervently as they could.
Novelty was what they hungered for, as my axe did for ****** wood.
It was fresh. New.
The Pacific Northwest wasn't ready for us.
Wife and I moved out here a couple months ago with the promise we'd make a good, honest living out here.
Y’know, these trees are so beautiful… real shame we’ve gotta cut ‘em all down for a whole lot less than what we was promised.
Progress… for what?
I don't think I wanna do this anymore…
but I must.
Onto the next tree. Hope this one's easier to cut down.
Written on 2025-02-05.

This piece is set in the perspective of a young logger, who moved to the Pacific Northwest in the late 1800s during the Second Industrial Revolution in the United States. It was inspired by an Aidin Robbins video on YouTube about a rainforest in Idaho. I conceived this at the end as I realized as Aidin existentially asked, “what am I doing here [in this forest]?”, I realized that the people who cut down the forest as he showed a log cabin and talked about the loggers, who must have thought the same thing that some of them must have definitely questioned the prospect of chopping down such beautiful trees and irreversibly ruining ecosystems for the sake of profit, striking it rich for what they were told was “a better future”.
We were born in the forest,
Living in the shadows,
Clinging to our loved ones
In the dark, under the trees.
Life was good then,
We had picked fruit from branches
And swung on them for joy.
And there was no greed
Or jealousy.
Over millions of years,
We lived in harmony,
Until the forest changed;
The garden shriveled and
Faded away as we watched.
Our lives were rearranged.
Some among us ventured out.
Giving in to our sin: curiosity.
We turned the grasslands
into pavement and stone
And we endured pain to walk
Down in the street, surrounded
by canyons of concrete and steel.
The powerful gather now
and hoard what was once shared.
Hors d’oeuvres are served,
Placating the hunger of the omnipotent,
that is never stated;
They will keep taking from us
As long as we allow it.
Even as they wallow in wealth,
They plot to plunder riches
and destroy the world,
scraping the land
and scouring the sea.
But one day, some loner, a rebel
May emerge from the shadows,
Dark-clad, filled with inchoate rage.
He will find like-minded souls
Who use the new machinations
To topple the oligarchs,
Empty their accounts
And give them to the world.
Chaos may follow,
But out of it a new humanity
Might arise.
A memory of what humans used to be, what horrible things they became and the hope that humans might decide to live as they once had, using progress to help each other.
Willow Dec 2024
For years they grew,
Unharmed, pure.
A forest of pristine, perfect trees.
Until I turned on them,
Scrutinizing and fearful.
I cut them down,
Chopped off branches
And ripped them from the dirt
Because they weren't good enough for me.
I rejected the sun
Because I couldn't see the light.
I denied the saplings room to grow,
Afraid of being okay again.
And let the parasites of doubt and fear and worthlessness to grow bigger,
To take hold instead.
I severed the ties of root systems,
Leaving myself on my own,
Solitary.
I refused them rain and fresh soil,
And carved lines in their bark instead.
But even as my forest withered,
And I longed to destroy everything left,
As the sky grew darker and the air colder,
I realized that even through the darkest nights
Stars will shine.
So I made constellations in my head.
I let the roots grow back
And made new connections.
I let the bark heal and replenish the soil.
I help new saplings grow, and nurture the ones that hid,
Safe but invisible as disease raged on.
I work on killing my demons, the parasites that still try to haunt me.
But I am stronger now.
So I let the sun rise
Over the healing landscape of my mind
Moncrieff Dec 2024
trudging further into dark wood,
    far off the beaten track,
shrinking deeper beneath this hood,
    purposeless to turn back.

no bread crumbs, for they can't follow,
    I can't make any room,
in this; my dark lonely hollow,
    solitude; set in gloom

I'll befriend a woodland creature,
    like a badger or a shrew,
but my forest cannot feature;
    a true friendship with you

we could try to do some hiking,
    or camp under the stars,
yet I know these trees arent your liking,
    thick trunks will turn to bars
Ember Nov 2024
delicate moths wish
to kiss
  your oxygen-eating fingers,
   as you gently consume
    sun-dried limbs
     of monster-trees.

     your dear children,
    born of the plant flesh
  you disintegrate,
dance on the whistling breeze.

should one of your young
  dare to tiptoe
   on brittle blades
    of winter-deceased grass,
     she will grow
      more impressively
       than you,
        her mother.

    she will indulge
   in tender gluttony,
  softly swallowing whole
the homes
of woodland denizens.

conceived of woodpecker houses,
  her own daughters
   enter the world,
    spread their mother's warmth,
     just as your sweet baby
      did with yours.

and forever you burn.
RustyHatchet Oct 2024
My life is like a box of chocolates
Being eaten up by different events, different illnesses, different... people
While their wrappers keep them nice and tidy and clean
My wrapper is gone, long torn away by hungry heathens
The only flavor left in the box is the flavor no one wanted
The flavor no one likes
Gabriel Bogari Oct 2024
Hopscotch
Sasquatch
Let me see
Let me smell

Walk,
Run,
Fly through my pain
Who cared once

I am but none
Dizzy, as the world
Shaking, as our edifice
Let me hold, Caris, on fiery arms

By nothing I’d swear
If by the love I feel
Like electricity
A shock to life, and my engines are quiet

I’ve burnt my fuel
Rather, it’s been burned by others
I gather wood before
Only a few musty branches

But you, I find
Deep in the dark night of the woods
By a huge, dry oak
“Would you like some?”

I can’t tell
If you can’t chop it on your own
Or you want to share it with me
But I could use an oaken heart

To burn together
To make a fire of wonders
To warm up the night
To cuddle, rest our lips together

Where does the road
In the forest go
How many fires will we light
How many nights will we lay together

Maybe the forest will be
A kind home with you
Or maybe we’ll exit
And find a riviera of gold

Wherever we are
Wherever we go
I’m glad to share the fire
I’m glad to share our selves

There is music, coming from afar
Can you hear it?
Coleen Mzarriz Oct 2024
I'm not as soft as a swan gliding into the poet's lake. I'm not as graceful as a ballerina waltzing in the arena. I am not as calm as the trees attending to your whimsical needs. I am built on ruins; I am something that has been running for decades, and I still think about the house keys I abandoned near the forest; they open the portal to your house. It was my favorite.

I am full of words,
Rotten poetry,
Full of work,
Empty memory.

"I don't know what to write anymore," I whispered. I was a romantic maniac. In me were growing daisies and burnt coffees, orange juices and promised salvation.

It's a funny little detail; now, it's all mishaps and mishandled poetry.

Through the shallows and the shadows, I screamed in horror, and then I felt the mockery of longing.
as I age, I spend less and less reading books that will keep me at night until dawn. I am slowly forgetting how to form words, and my love for writing is nothing but a fond memory kept inside my favorite box. now, every poem that I write is just as empty as me; it’s lacking. it’s boring and awkward. it’s a dream I keep repeating on and on. it was once my favorite escapade, a heaven; now, it’s all nothing but frugal chaos.
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