ominouspoet

trees,
great beasts of old.

ancient not just in age, but in nature,
standing tall, watching all

wise things, trees, knowing all they see

no words do they speak,
with no eyes they see,

Next year, I am going to a new high school. Not the one in my town, where I know everyone, where I was destined to go since kindergarten.

I'm attending a high school two towns away, in a small town. Where I know almost no one.

spring is coming-

the earth awakes from her death-sleep,
melting away the frozen blanket over her body.

soft tears often fall-

tears for the lives lost, for the new lives given.

i find myself so entrapped in the negatives of this world that i fail to see the positives

the beauty in a growing plant, 

or a dying beast.

singing is a beautiful thing:
human made noise-
sweet and melodic,
deep and true.

it can be loud, shrill,
lofty, and gentle.
It can be simple,
thundering, and earth-shaking.

what to do when everything that makes us human-

art, music, creation-

is copied, stolen, created by non-human, non-living ai

what will we do?

when our very expression is being taken away from us