you’re the sun and i’m the moon;
i can’t glow without you.

i am a flower.

i will grow in the sunlight
and bloom under the moon.

i will be plucked by fingers
too greedy to nourish me after.

but i am a flower
and i refuse to wilt in your vase.

do poems only flourish when they are rooted in the soil of emotions?
shall i water them with my tears?
do they sprout from the anger that weeds itself through my soul?
are they the seeds that i planted in my garden and only grow when the sky flashes and thunder sounds?
will you pluck them and use them as decoration for your dinner table?
do they bloom in the moonlight?
are they the trees that sway in the wind yet stand tall in the face of a hurricane?
are poems only full of emotion when we are?
or can i truly write whatever i want?

i wasn’t born to create
tear stains in my pillow at night.

i was born to draw
blood from bone