Bumps

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.