Paper, Pens and Pads
Well I'm allergic to paper
Ink on trees, metals on wood.

Pens injecting dead trees,
Trees shot dead by metals on wood.
Dead logs become houses,
For beings whilst chasing out the bees.

I prefer Pads not Paper and Pens.

Ran I ran, towards the majestic fall,
My demise luring me with a grin.
Coated with smiles in disguise.

My inner whispered awesomeness and all,
I felt even my little tufted hairy chin,
Dancing to the chilling breeze's cries.

The day dawned just like any other day except for the kisses of the rays that gave a soothing sensation to the skin. On that day Chipo out rightly agreed with herself that her skin was doing well even without a thin plastering from the skin doctor. The streams made a beautiful sound and the fauna gave a harmony hymn, complementing the whistles of the waters.

Shadows glooming despondency uprightly,
Focusing a glim of shame and imposed abandoning.
''You look greatly molded in depression,
Your burden to me looks fancy.....''
That was a misery softened evil ****,
Piercing through into my shallow hollowed ears.  

Our rep casted her eyes aside,
Hoping to swift through a refreshing outlook.
The sight of it burdened her eyebrows,
Her lids stashed with a haulage of anger.

The wicked lingered in every set of a piece,
Even the tiny, lest we forget about the shiny.
It dug through and through to the cores of her bliss,
Sowing pandemonium, doubt and crime.
What crime?

Crimes of self doubt, crimes of hopelessness,
Cries for help, cries for a decent revitalizing wave.
Miles of cries led to crimes,
Cries of eyes for miles.

We are within the evil, daily
We brew it steadily.
Our hope, not a strategy; is that we live,
We survive this feeling.
We are 21.

The dream was shattered on our watch,
The glass took them more time to furnish
than it took for them to break, clutch.

Thought you were covered, alas,
They only got your back, not back to back.
Hesitated from a distance, waiting on us,
It threw blames, its eyes screamed. Catch!

And I gazed as...…

The grass withered from the shores,
Gravitated towards the blooming faces of the union,
For with a clouded glance it was a mirage,
That only could reflect from the banks.

The rivers narrowed and narrowed,
Distanced themselves from the bloomy,
rosy, happy and colorful bud.

If it was for the fauna, it stomped the stems,
grazed the infancy out of the bud.
Exposed now it was, as flora had withered and gave up.
The union stood alone, deserted and weakened.

How did you survive? I asked a question.
The bud answered....

Our weakest joins were covered, plastered and,
illuminated by a gift of time.
A gift that requires only patience and steadfast,
A species that has what we lack.