Posted in English poetry, Mindful


We are little things in time of bloom,

We are buried underground till we develop,

The hairs on our heads are what bring attention to passers-by,

And then we are furiously yanked out of our home,

Our skin is peeled off as well as our hair,

But do they care if we suffer?

No, alas, they enjoy doing so and rip us to pieces,

And far worse than peeling,

Torture us with boiling steam,

As we die they laugh in glee,

While we are stuck in their bellies!



I am writer and poet who has written many works and still writing. Mission: To spread what I know!

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