almost two years
and what i have done in those
two years alone
the sunflower stem,
broken and withered, it's wound
bare and vulnerable
is finally able to become
a subject of the love i should
have caressed it in
when all i could do
was leave it to dry up, it's soil
cracking and shriveled
but now, watered
and nurtured, and cared for
slowly and slowly
the leaves begin
to grow again, its stem standing upright
and the flower;
it's golden petals
begin to blossom and bloom,
flourishing
the sunflower
becomes it's own sun, grown again;
now my own sunflower
Aug 21, 2020
Aug 21, 2020 at 9:44 PM UTC
I hung the sunflower
from a piece of twine
in my wardrobe,
some months ago now.
Something once beautiful,
a gift from you to me,
a symbol of us,
together
and the happiness we found
in eachother
as we grew and bloomed
together.
So I hung it in the wardrobe
to preserve it.
To keep it. To admire it.
To cherish it for as long as we could.
And yet despite my attempts,
this sunflower’s petals
fell to the wardrobe floor,
it’s head shrivelling, wilting.
What could I do?
but leave it there
for days and weeks,
suspended amongst the clothes.
But the longer I left it,
unable to face
what I knew I had to do,
the worse this sunflower became.
We cannot restore
life into something
dead
and decayed.
I sharpened my shears and cut both
the thin twine of the sunflower,
and the thin twine holding us
together.
The dead sunflower hanging in my wardrobe
becomes the dead sunflower
lying amongst its own petals
on the wardrobe floor.
I am left to pick up the pieces
of what once was.
It was useless to try to preserve
when all flowers live, then die.
Jan 15, 2019
Jan 15, 2019 at 6:37 PM UTC
My beautiful sunflower,
of warm, yellow joy -
infectious - as sunshine
beams across our faces.
An abundance of petals,
golden in the light.
Growing toward the sun,
striving for perfection.
Our beautiful sunflower,
nurtured and thriving,
growing through my heart, warm
with happiness and love.
Jan 3, 2019
Jan 3, 2019 at 1:04 PM UTC
Music,
Dancing in the ears.
Trying to distract
From restless thoughts.
Music,
Hard to form, for now.
A wound to the heart,
Death an arrow.
Music,
Just reminds of them.
But slowly time heals
Its own harsh wounds.
Dec 26, 2017
Dec 26, 2017 at 5:08 PM UTC
lives in my gut,
but still I feel empty.
It's legs tangled
up inside me,
twisting my organs.
Its suckers squeeze
warmth out of me,
leaving me cold and numb.
Entwined inside,
suffocating
me as I try to breathe.
Dec 26, 2017
Dec 26, 2017 at 4:59 PM UTC