Teenage

The stars in the sky
As bright as I
Don’t weep and cry
From the sky because
You are As Bright As I

Across the vast expanse of land, two titans stand their ground,
The Great Wall of China, a shield of stone profound,
Guarding ancient secrets, it whispers tales of yore,
While the Great Green Wall of Africa breathes life evermore.
One defends a culture, the other heals the Earth,
Both mighty in their purpose, yet a paradox of birth.

Eight thousand kilometers long, the greenery spreads,
The solution to famines, its glory never sheds.
Storming through Nigeria, handing out free shade,
What a generous wall – a wall that will never fade.
The Great Wall of China, colossal and vast,
A transportation corridor, linking futures to the past.
With unique architectural wonder, a feat of pure design,
Symbol of Chinese culture, standing the test of time.

The Great Green Wall, a perfect habitat proudly for all,
Home to two hundred and thirty-two million, a safe place to call.
With a therapeutic sight that drowns your worries in a flurry,
It plants beautiful images withing your cerebrum,
a wonderous hurry.
Its glory and wisdom reach their maximum height,
A beacon of hope, restoring day from night.

The Great Wall of China, the protector of the Silk Road trade route,
An ancient marvel, a brilliant attraction that drowns the world to its clout.
Making people travel from everywhere, in awe they stand,
To witness its grandeur and the stories etched in the land.

Together they flourish, two legacies intertwined,
One, a testament of of resilience, the other, of a nurturing mind.
In the face of adversity, they stand side by side,
A reminder that through unity and strength, we can turn the tide.
So let us cherish these wonders, their tales forever shared,
Through walls of stone and green, a future that is prepared.

In the grass, so still and bright,
A slithering shadow moves in the night.
With scales that shimmer, sleek and tight,
The serpent glides, a silent sight.

No footsteps echo, no sound is made,
Through the underbrush, it softly swayed.
With eyes so keen, a gaze so cold,
A creature of mystery, brave and bold.

It coils and weaves, in graceful dance,
A symbol of nature’s hidden trance.
With venom or charm, it plays its part,
A creature of wonder, a work of art.

Fear not the snake, in shadow’s keep,
For it too, in silence, dares to creep.
In nature’s web, it finds its place,
A keeper of balance, with quiet grace.

In the grass, so still and bright,
A slithering shadow moves in the night.
With scales that shimmer, sleek and tight,
The serpent glides, a silent sight.

No footsteps echo, no sound is made,
Through the underbrush, it softly swayed.
With eyes so keen, a gaze so cold,
A creature of mystery, brave and bold.

It coils and weaves, in graceful dance,
A symbol of nature’s hidden trance.
With venom or charm, it plays its part,
A creature of wonder, a work of art.

Fear not the snake, in shadow’s keep,
For it too, in silence, dares to creep.
In nature’s web, it finds its place,
A keeper of balance, with quiet grace.

Moon got dim, an eerie sense did cascade,
The Nimbus, so subtle, performed a serenade.
For it didn’t want the rain to leave,
But raindrops did spill, I’m afraid.

Forlornly arrived the raindrop,
While the Freesias did ghastly sob.
Why is Nimbus always the tragedian?
It moved ponderously; but hastily did it throb.

Longevity? The scented Freesias did stale,
Rain did appeal mellifluously, but it came too frail.
Was it serendipitous for the Nimbus to leak?
Tattered, the ground had turned so pale.

Envisaging joy, dim was the light,
While the rain still dropped beside.
The cloud brimmed over, the rain showered,
We didn’t care, but now the scent is deprived.

Count steps towards success
The road to success is challenging and long
Full of obstacles where you must stay strong
With each step forward keep your goal clear
As success is hard earned and is near
The mistakes and hardships are to be embraced
If you feel fear you must confront it in the face
And if you’re lost you have to confess,
So your guiding dreams lead the way
To count steps towards success.

Home,
My mother said,
Home is not a house,
Nor a country,
Nor even a person like the poets say.
No,
My mother said,
Home is a feeling.
Home is something
You can touch without your hands
You can see without your eyes.
Home,
My mother said,
Home is like fabric,
Fabric you can feel without your fingers.
It cloaks your body
With the wistful smell of an embrace.

You lie there,
Blind and free
Between the fibres,
Turn to the stars of thread
And feel you are safe,
Feel you are loved.

Take my body
Flesh and all
Throw it in the garbage
And call me a doll.

My skin; porcelain
My eyes; painted
I can’t feel anything
Except for body hatred

Little girls love me:
Hold me close,
Hug me goodnight,
Love me most.

Don’t cry at my grave, I’m not there
My spirit has left this plane
But my memories still remain
Talk to me at our favourite park
Come and see me where I left my mark
Cry for me where we first met
Scream at me with all your regret
Don’t cry about my death
Remember my life and its disaster
For I am not worthy your tears
But I will forever be grateful for your laughter

Obscurity of grey curtains,
Hiding the coldest reds of the new autumn.
Leaving her eldest daughter at college,
forgotten memories rest in splotched patches
on the leather seats.

The growing cold comes in like waves,
crashing and growing exponentially,
destroying all crusted creatures left in its path.

Distinguishing the sizzling touch of black asphalt,
remembering the past father’s special pasta
burning the roof of her mouth.

The sidewalk grows thinner along the outer boundaries,
turning into rubble and picturesque sand in multitudes.
Never would she have thought the fall to be summertime,
yet the smell of freedom and harsh smog bring her back to
avid Julys on the dark green waters of Jersey.

Scaling as high as the heavens,
with hell’s burning highway nestled under in abundance,
taking the fuel of the world away with every fill-up.

No sight of the burning
Jesus
Today, just visions and pieces of his rays
lay burrowed in his
pale cotton candy,
silently engulfing all life without a sugar coating on top.

All part of an elaborate game,
the smoking gun,
waiting for the bullet to connect between the neck and rib cage of
a sick doe
crossing untouched sacred ground.
Fast as lightning,
his legs swiftly go limp underneath his carcass.
His cheek sliding across the tundra,
pale yellow cement
of a once splendorous fruit and vegetable garden.

With enough resources to supply an entire town,
the hoarders sit on a pile of
greed,
rising high above the grey smoke
in fresh baby-blue skies.

The leaves,
their magnificent properties of
passion,
love,
and flourishing
life,
hidden by the
muck
of
mankind.

Desperately trudging through,
sinking like quicksand,
drinking the final gulp of clean,
un-artificial air.

Raked into a pile of death,
perpetually in motion,
the sludge consumes all.