I used to see myself as a tree.

One of those that come in a bag,

(go in a bag,)

always being uprooted as soon as I get comfortable,

forgetting I was allowed to be comfortable.

Now I don't know how to be comfortable.


I'm not a tree;

I'd like to be.


I stay always knowing that I am leaving soon.

I want something to stay the same forever

A tree lives a long time

but in the end it's only paper

white as death

in my hands.

This poem is about: 


Additional Resources

Get AI Feedback on your poem

Interested in feedback on your poem? Try our AI Feedback tool.


If You Need Support

If you ever need help or support, we trust for people dealing with depression. Text HOME to 741741