My poet tree has branches and leaves, write on a leaf and see how tall the branch stretches.
The ink is the sap and its always waiting, waiting for someone to write their meaning of life, of everything that has been their for them.
On this said poet tree, anyone can reach its branches. It knows when you need to write about something hurting.
It feels the pain, the happiness and all the wars that are waging, deep inside, somewhere, where the world is not knowing.
The poet tree, accepts any words, any sentence that left you feeling weighty.
You see the leaves don’t fall down, they fall up and fly, fly high in the sky, where no one can reach them.
Whatever you write of thoughts and feelings is poetry, only you know how you want the words spoken. If at all you wish them to be spoken.
The poet tree is always waiting, never ageing, still, brand new, with the leaves I started my pages.