there are bumps on my hand
the birds are pecking on them
i see them pick on my skin
my blood pools and drips
from my palm,
staining the grass red
i watch it seep into the soil,
and its gone
the tree next to me drops a fig
its roots curl around my figure
telling me of its life,
it speaks to me
its life, the trees life
my life, is no longer mine
its in the bird, its in the grass,
its in the tree,
and in the figs that fall from it
and i,
i still live.
i still live.
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125,024 Literary Works • 672,762 Reviews
This is a beautiful poem! I love the symbolism of letting the birds peck at your skin until they bleed, staining things along its way to the ground but ultimately fading. I also really enjoyed the "it's life, the trees life, my life, is no longer mine" part, it really wraps together nicely along with the repetition of "I still live" despite the bleeding from your hand and the possession the tree has over you. I loved how come this poem made me think about what it meant, keep writing!!
thank you!!