I remember a photo I saw of a two-hundred-year-old
cherry blossom tree.
I imagine the events it must have borne witness to:
births, deaths, tsunamis, the rise and fall of empires,
but still its branches spread with pink and red blooms.
I wake up some mornings, an elegy for self
on my cracked lips, gazing upon my scars
and wondering why I’m still here.
But to some, I’m still blooming and they don’t see
the fractures I think define me.
Perhaps I still have some life in me.
If a tree can withstand two-hundred years
of storm and sun,
I, too, can live and love a little longer.
bipolar
An Illness: a Poem
A poem written by me, inspired to share by the poet and author, Nicole Lee (@nicoleleepoetry|Scorpio Skin).
This monster reigns as king,
as heavy as an anvil
(as visible as air).
It begs a fight,
fists clenched,
battle-scarred and ready,
when all I’ve wanted is
tranquility.
The bruises it leaves
rot
from the inside out.
The pain sears,
yet the beast hides
(cloaked in shadows).
It might lie dormant
for centuries.
Undisturbed,
it slumbers.
But when it wakes,
blood trickles from its fangs
as it snarls & seethes.
(Searching for a captive.)
It takes & holds me hostage.
It is as toxic as fumes and as haunting as nightmares.
Isabelle Palerma
Isabelle Palerma 