Taken from the film Sylvia Plath, Tree of Life is like a female description of the affects of PFS on one’s own life. Haunting!
Sometimes I dream of a tree,
And the tree is my life.
One branch is the man I shall marry
And the leaves are my children.
Another branch is my future as a writer
And each leaf is a poem.
Another branch is a glittering academic career.
But as I sit there, trying to choose,
The leaves begin to turn brown and blow away
Until the tree is absolutely bare.
I wrote this poem a few years ago and I’d like to share it with you, maybe it’ll encourage more people to share their’s if they have. My mother lenguage is spanish so I apologize for any translation mistakes.
When I see myself in the mirror
I do not see that boy crazy for living,
no, I do not see that.
I see the remains
of a man in ruins,
a crooked tree that has not given fruit in a long time.
I sometimes try to pick up the pieces scattered on the floor
and forge something, something new, something good,
but the pieces are broken, twisted, burned or simply are not.
Some days the image is distorted and I see something worse,
I see what I could have been and possibly never will,
and that is undoubtedly the most painful image.
My tree was cut down and set on fire in front of me.