Stumps.

Let me start off by saying, I usually don’t write poems.
Why, I never write poems.
Inspiration struck one fine afternoon – when my Economics teacher gave us a class off.
The number of fast falling trees in my beautiful, once-lush-not-so-much-anymore locality had been bothering me for days. . . it continues to, to be honest.
As a teenager, I know local authorities will consider uninhibited phone lines more important than saving the trees or a sixteen year old’s words.
It matters though that they become aware of the impact of all that they are doing
And, as they say, your words do count and matter. So I took to writing a poem.  Here goes. . .

As I looked around the world before me
I realise that all that I see
Are stumps of trees that would be
Had they not been chopped off with material glee.

They beg us, beseech us
To let them grow
And those who understand know
That it is not just a request,
So they beg and beseech
those cruel monsters who do not care

One by one, tree after tree
Is cut mercilessly
Till there is not one of them left
And the land is now bereft

‘Is it human?’ the stumps ask me
And i, in turn ask thee –
To destroy the most beautiful part of the picture God drew
And not just one, not just two – but all of them you slew
More for your greed than any need.

It is their curse upon us
That we suffer day after day
And anything I do or say
Is seen and heard only them.
Those stumps of trees that would have been.

Poetry is when an emotion has found thought and thought has found words.
~Robert Frost
.

Anythingabouteverything!

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