your unravelled self
is my favourite mess to sort through

so that way I may understand
what kind of fabric
you were made from

soft, like silk running through my fingers

warm, like woolen gloves made for winter

in the spun threads I uncover a story
and how you are clothed

in beauty untold

years spent numbing the pain
ignoring it's sting
covering it up
downplaying the hurt it causes

it will only lead
to you feeling

an aching numbness of existence
in self inflicted solitude

stand up for yourself

because if life is something,

it‘s a delicate balance act

of gloom and doom
and overjoyous glee

of hardships and work
and all our time spent free

finding content in it
where it ought not to be

reaching common ground
between the you and the me

as were both sitting
underneath the orchard's tree

After lengthy days of torment and grief
Braving the cold, remained the last leaf
Feeling the slightest breeze
She slowly danced with grace and ease
Like a ballerina driven by the sound of her heartbeat
She made her final dance
And with her gorgeous golden autumn wings
She’s now ready for winter’s frigid embrace

Do the flowers mourn when one is picked?
I know that question is kinda morbid and sick.
But I’ve always wondered if they somehow know,
Like for weddings and birthdays that it’s their time to go?

Do they feel sorry for lovestruck dames,
That pull off petals whilst saying their crushes’ names,
That pulled the last petal on “He loves me not”?
Do they feel bad that she’s distraught?

Do they compete on who’s the prettiest?
Each person has an opinion of which flower is the best,
Of their looks are they actually aware,
Do flowers even care?