Chopping block

We’re all waiting for our turn on the block,

My family is gone and I can hear the clock.

The executioner chops us up one by one

We’re waiting in a pile, burned by the sun.

We scream for mercy but the hangman can’t hear

The pitch of our screams too high for his ear.

I see an opening and I flee, I flee!

Stumble on the bodies of the mass around me.

The hangman sees me and chooses me next

I can’t resist, it’s like I were hexed.

Sets me on the block, prepares his ax,

I pass out and my body does relax.

The hangman chops and I am no more,

Next one to the block, an endless chore.

 

In the head of the hangman at that time:

“Oak is hard, my ax is past its prime.”

 

One gets funny ideas when chopping firewood, as there’s quite a lot of time to think while axing stuff.

Flowers in a vase

When you learn, your head is a vase,

Wherein you must deliberately place,

Every, the tiniest, piece of information,

That will bloom into a flower after some frustration.

You must water the flowers in the vase,

Revise what you learned, go on a chase,

Chasing after the ones trying to escape,

Lassoing them in back into their shape.

You must smell the flowers in the vase,

Practice what you learned in this case.

Look for opportunities to apply your knowledge

Going further than the lectures at the community college.

That is all there is, some flowers in a vase.