the pomegranate tree poem

To whom it may concern outside of self, I’m sorry but working on it

because I deserve it too.

I’m as confused as you

only up until recently,

ask me if I knew.

knew what caused me to push and pull so fucking easily

wanting so very deeply then avoiding that shit just as fucking quickly

it had felt like a curse

sometimes it feels as if it’s getting worse

looking back at the first pages of my book

pages I could never make out properly

pages where the words looked all fuzzy

parts of pages torn out from the stem

this part of the book was made from an wondrous tree with overbearing pomegranates

beautiful to look at, sweeping up everything in its alluring essence and once to close,

hard to reach

very hard to reach

the beauty of this tree came from its nature,

fruit hard to reach but fruit always given

it wants, it seems to need to share all its pomegranates

these luscious pomegranates were handed out graciously,

effortlessly,

momentarily

yet when the tree would taste her own juices,

when the tree was thirsty & wanted to soak in this liquid others adored,

this magic that could never be ignored,

it was bitter? and sour?

a sharp taste incased within its own roots

the tree would try again and again to drink from her fountain,

and from this the tree grew confused as to the love she received from others that would drink and eat the bitterness of her pomegranates

she soon realised that others got the sweetest fruits she bared that she would still always welcome others to eat and drink of

the happiness, the warmth, the comfort of others also pleased the tree

so for years the tree decided to give and grow thirsty,

i’m too thirsty now.

I began to realise how necessary it was

for my pomegranates to taste sweet for me too.

The fuzzy words are in focus

i’ve captured the torn pages

now all that’s left is to mend and heal these chapters

slowly & lovingly

I think something that slows me down at times

is the bitter sour taste of my pomegranates

making me want to avoid the disappointment, the dissatisfaction

but it no more comes from a place of woe

I remember finally melting into tears at the love I felt I lacked from the closed doors of my own home.

The heart is the home of the soul.

My home is welcoming for others,

so peaceful & nurturing

never nurtured

never felt much peace for.

So I owe it to my many selves to mend and heal… and so I will

04/05/23. I am.