I am like a tree. I am sturdy yet I can be torn down. Half of the time, I seem to be dead, and others like I am withering away. I can do nothing about it, for I am not like a pine, standing tall and always looking alive. I am a weeping willow. I am sad and I let people make fun of me and use me. I am soft. I keep my head down and my hair over my face to cover up the tears, hoping for a rainy day, in which I can slightly lift my head and people will think the tears I am shedding are little rain drops. I am considered sad, ugly, and creepy by most, and I feel sorry for all the other trees beside me, for I am the only one who is wallowing in depression neck deep, suffocating… For I am a Weeping Willow…