Tips traverse, a forest red,
scratching through the trees,
natural oils, make the bed,
and some rocks like these,
water can’t create the sand,
for stubborn are the bumps,
as they sting; they still stand,
to stay my bloody stumps,
dandruff also acts as snow,
humiliating mess,
a doubt that does shower so,
the blizzard of some stress,
perhaps explorer barber,
could cure with a cut,
but such things that harbour,
ensures for such a rut,
yet, if mind steers the storm,
perhaps some levelling,
douse a drought, that is so worn,
a bright awakening,
where tips do glide, over crown,
scab stones, won’t be seen,
because a choice to not be down,
will make the forest clean.