We are like trees.
Growing tall with greenery.
Dusty brown soil,
dry cracked leaves.

Wrapped with vines.
Climbed by twisted plant.
They crept along the ground,
they clung onto our skin.

The tree is us.
We grow old with emotions.
Dark ugly hatred,
beautiful fragile heart.

Embraced with thoughts.
Trailed by twisted world's plot.
They followed along our life.
They stuck in our mind.

A poet is a tree.
Watered with tears.
Sunned with laughter,
Cut down by harmful words.

A tree is a poet.
Being called a home.
By birds and humans,
who always come and go.