Picking petals
May
May
Sep 30

Picking petals
like you picked apart
my heart.
each piece drifts
slowly
to the ground
You loved me,
you love me not.

Petal by petal.
Piece by piece.
Till nothing's left
but a vacant stem,
an empty vessel.
Left to wither away
never can be whole again,
can't get back what's been taken.
You loved me.
You love me not.

I envy the flower,
for while it dies
after being picked and torn
to peices.
I survive,
these injuries won't kill me
but I'll never be the same.
so i'll continue picking petals
You loved me.
You love me not.

#love   #heart   #break   #flower   #unrequited   #petals   #wither   #picking  
Mike Hauser
Mike Hauser
Mar 13, 2013

I started out this morning

Not intending to write a trilogy

One subject that I failed to pick

Is right in front of me

Keeping the air waves free of debris

Is why I dig so deep

It's better to pick what's between my eyes

Than what's behind between my cheeks

See Holmes
See Holmes
Jun 16, 2013      Jun 17, 2013

"I'm sure we were meant
to grow this uneven,
a seesaw of sorts
with me down
below
ever crawling up."

We can love like this...

"I'm sure we were meant
to love and to lose,
a flash of something
beautiful and
noteworthy only
because of its extinction."

I shouldn't hold on to you so...

but dammit,
I'm still calling
you mine.

(seeing you hold on to him,
it's time to let go)
Lauren Ashley
Lauren Ashley
Apr 8, 2011

she placed her fingers upon the seed of distrust
so distraught was her own intoxicated mind
he didn't find her beautiful, he loved her not
he wasn't there to define her boundary lines
she placed her hand around the bottle's curves
hope put in a better place that satisfaction finds
knowledge that someone would find her beautiful
knowing that someone would love her at least for tonight

ryan
ryan
1 day ago

It cradles between your cupped
Palms, a big red strawberry
That pours its thick syrupy juice
Over knots in tongues
After whispering tales of birds;
It strains between every pause
Before it gets to scream and
Stutter your syllables to whatever
Fleeting, uncaring wind drifts past
It's red pulsing lips that stretch
Its fingers out to grope at the feeling
That recedes to memory when you
Have to go.

As her Majesty lays excitedly crumpled
in my pocket, I dance down the street
amidst rubber masks and credit cards,
hoping that I will find you between the
shadows, the pantomime villain I have
come to love.

drunk on dandelion milk:
this dragon-fly, cotton-cloud haze
dulls my ears to each petal's cry
as I seek a flower's counsel in love.

Lotus
Lotus
May 6, 2013

Leave me here,
By and by the misty oaks,
Those boast and cower through seasons.

Leave me here,
By and by the sun-touched,
Pebbled paths that led many pairs of feet.
For here my eyes do spy those
Ivory petaled bells of flowers.

Leave me here,
By and by,
Where I will pick these flowers,
And furnish my day with scented simplicity.

Blueberry picking was no chore.
Ormond
Ormond
Sep 9, 2012

Blueberry picking was no chore.
In the hoary-head of blue things,
Stuff was easy, and ripe for the picking,
Bunching blue-baubles in baskets over-ripened
Of berries.   On special mornings, due southwest
In lazy hills, round my home, — bells  
Were breaking, in quiet sections of the Canton,
Massachusetts woods, and playing by them,
We rounded blue notes, some friends and I,  
Plucked-out tunes to the breeze, on leafy-
Instruments, and pulled our weight, into moil-moisted  
Bushels, (one batch of blue was more than a ton  
Of any other fruit!)   
Toiling, till the sky would peek  
And spill its hue.  Foragers were we, as teaming
Minnows round a polk-a-dot reef, feasting on some great  
Blue-Fin’s roe, brave savages, painted in the glow of ember-
Light, of burnished yellows, and bushy-blanched browns
Drenched by dew and dappled in the stipple
Of sun-brushed fire, all the colours making patterns, even  
Box Turtles knew.   How merry it was we made our labors,
Why it was wicked!  And muggy from the heat of cool  
Indigo stars, we squenched our thirst, in glugs  
Of kisses, each following the greatest by far,  
And one soft day, we did notice the crown
Of a Princess, set on top of each full  
Noble-blooded faery-pearl dropped
As if to commemorate all  
The things that were worth  
Knowing, stuff that was ripe,  
Easy, and rapt
In blue.

Blueberry picking was no chore.
Ormond
Ormond
Nov 24, 2013

Blueberry picking was no chore.
In the hoary-head of blue things,
Stuff was easy, and ripe for the picking,
Bunching blue-baubles in baskets over-ripened
Of berries.   On special mornings, due southwest
In lazy hills, round my home, — bells  
Were breaking, in quiet sections of the Canton,
Massachusetts woods, and playing by them,
We rounded blue notes, some friends and I,  
Plucked-out tunes to the breeze, on leafy-
Instruments, and pulled our weight, into moil-moisted  
Bushels, (one batch of blue was more than a ton  
Of any other fruit!)  
Toiling, till the sky would peek  
And spill its hue.  Foragers were we, as teaming
Minnows round a polk-a-dot reef, feasting on some great  
Blue-Fin’s roe, brave savages, painted in the glow of ember-
Light, of burnished yellows, and bushy-blanched browns
Drenched by dew and dappled in the stipple
Of sun-brushed fire, all the colours making patterns, even  
Box Turtles knew.   How merry it was we made our labors,
Why it was wicked!  And muggy from the heat of cool  
Indigo stars, we squenched our thirst, in glugs  
Of kisses, each following the greatest by far,  
And one soft day, we did notice the crown
Of a Princess, set on top of each full  
Noble-blooded faery-pearl dropped
As if to commemorate all  
The things that were worth  
Knowing, stuff that was ripe,  
Easy, and rapt
In blue.

 
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