I used to have a plant that I loved.
The ones before neglected and left it
alone in the dark. At the base, there are still scars
yet I stared in awe whenever I saw it.
It had pink flowers mixed with bits of blue,
with a slim, tall, and strong frame.
The *** was white with a round bottom,
with red spots exposed by the chipped paint.
I loved it so hard because I wanted it to thrive,
but maybe I did too much. Every plant is different.
There was already yellow at the ends;
I didn’t notice the overwatering.
It hurt to see the plant go even though
I gave it love, and I thought it was enough.

I am from a dreamland.
My great land was diverse yet so grand as
the food and words were never bland.
The hands were rich with bands and rands,
built from working the same ground upon which we stand.
I am from a home that once spanned
prosperity itself; such a lovely
thing was a gift to our health. The sands,
skies, and seas could even hold the Heavens.
The trees used to dance in the breeze with ease.
I am from a dwelling of past envy,
but not of a hating feeling,
in the purest form, this was just only beauty.
But I am from broken societies.

Our hearts were bled dry
as we were taken overseas.
We prayed, begged, cried why
ever so loudly, but it was in vain.
I am from a place where our veins
still course with a saddened passion,
as a lack of love is our new fashion.

With sorrow, I am still from a life of death,
as their malice has never left.
Yet they still set us so carelessly upon the trees;
despite our screams and pleas, we
become the strangest fruits you have ever seen.
We have no identity and we have no names.
yet they still set us so harshly upon the pyre;
the painful extermination of desire
is a freedomless and killing fire.
Even our look for love is seen as theft,
and sadly, I am from where they even have my last breath.

Hands holding onto her hips,
breaths bouncing with bliss,
we both crave just one more kiss.
Hands now on the door,
pouring out even from my pores,
we both look to adore.
I love her in my life,
but this feels like so much strife,
so I need to just let her go.
No, she’s not near anymore,
yet the water still flows,
my garden of unemployed roses still grows.
Any more guilt and I’ll hit the floor.

Why hold guilt, a better man sees chance.
I grab her waist, just hoping we dance.
It worked but, she's just looking for free lance.
I keep coming. Closing the distance.
For her, I’ll go the distance.
But why do I feel this shame?
She ended things so I’m not to blame.
But her ocean eyes still hold my flame,
so for love again should I change my aim?
My fear should be cooler,
my wish was to move her. Closer.
Just a bit closer. But I can’t reach forever.
I loved her so I can’t seem to forget her.
I just miss the safety in us being together.
Her warmth was enough and I never needed a sweater.
And this passion to love what I’ve seen,
seems like beams of an eternal dream. A racing bee
is to me, as a honey-laced flower is to she.
I’m stuck and falling even though the leaves are changing;
maybe I should move on and leave her to be.
But if you truly love, is it right to flee?

She’s no longer the source of my prayer,
she’s no longer holding most of my care.
And I swear that I couldn’t really bear
her wear and tear that wasn’t fair.

Now I race with haste to get some space
from her taste and her lively face
which is now just slightly laced with a trace
of my want for us to discase.
She’s hard to replace
but no longer can I chase
and keep pace with such a cold case.

My eyes are stained red;
not from crying again,
but by the taste of an herbal hope.
Perhaps it’s better off left unsaid,
but the smell of dread is left dead
by the piquant flame to which I tread.
My head floats like a ghost
from this sweet green and purple.
With tasteful lips in supply,
and a rolled joy high in my mind,
I’ve forgotten what it was like to cry.

My sanguine speech seems slurred.
And I’m not crying anymore;
a toast to the flame-filled water.
It makes facing my regrets easier,
and it’s so easy to disappear when she’s near.
I never want it to be like before,
even though sometimes I wake up poor
on the floor from pouring my pores
into just trying to forget her.
But for her adoration I no longer implore,
I instead explore for ore within the lore
of another woman’s valor.
Now the thought of the touch from a one-time lover
smothers my past desire for her fire.

The tangy taste of love lost
has faded over with hoarfrost.
Each weekend, I distend my intentions
to bend my wants, to be blunt,
to punt my fronts, as I tend
to ascend with commonly dazed women.
I can deny that I see guilt in the bliss
that is built on meaningless kisses.
I’m not digging dirt with these hoes,
and we know that the marks on their
necks aren’t from mosquitoes.
And our souls stay open when our knees fold.
And no matter how many potholes I explore,
I don’t feel ******* deplored,
I adore pouring out my core.

I am different now.
I think that I’ve changed for the better,
but I know that I won’t be tempest-tossed,
no matter the cost.