Fern
We stay. Away from others
But inside with ourselves like
A tortoise inside its shell with no
Place else to go but home.
Being forced to be by yourself
We’ll slowly learn to be
Content with who we are.
Like the wind through the leaves
And droplets of the fern
And the snow melting off the mountain
And the cracks on the earth
We become who we were always
Meant to be.
Paper
We write.
Through the days and the nights,
The weeks and the months, we write.
Through the highs and the lows,
The ebbs and the flows
We write.
Like water flowing through the grooves
And wind blowing above our heads
Through the blues and through the reds
In our rooms and on our beds
We write.
We’re meant to write like
We’re meant to feel.
We write like how paper planes glide.
We write like how birds fly
And babies cry,
People express and
People repress.
We write like life.
Inevitably beautiful and painful.
We write.
Others
People look around for things
That they find beautiful.
Faces, flowers, skies, smiles.
People, backgrounds, suns, lives.
We find things around us that
We deem beautiful because it's
Often easier to look out that it
Is to look for beauty within.
We look at others and find
The beauty they propagate is often
Akin to the beauty we ourselves own.
It's like a mirror and not one way glass
in the sense that when we look at the beauty
in others they look at the beauty in us.
© Uwais Coetzee
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Matric 2018
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