Flowers blossom in summer and she, the one who tends.
The rose that took years to bloom, exhilarates that shimmering white. It would be enough.
But for her eyes look beyond. Between the fence that hides the beauty of her creations.
Stems that escape to her. Petals that don’t belong to her.
The scandalous desire to take them. It would be more than enough.
Yet either’s beauty cannot be taken as the weight piles.
The guilt lets them grow and she waters them once again.

People talk of
Comparing apples to oranges
Like its some pointless exercise
But Apples are boss
And oranges ****
I wouldn't tell you any lies.

When patterns repeat, year after year,  
And threaten you at your most pivotal hour.
It feels like a checkmate.

I am wilted. I am weary.
I am weathered. I am worn.
I am stuffed with seeping sadness, and stewed in sticky, seething scorn.

I am deflated. Thoughts debunked.
And I am drowned in desperate dread.  
When I soak my roots in water, I find it dries them out instead.

I am wilted. I am weary.
I am wilted. I am worn.

I am a Prisoner.
Prisoned in the cage of expectations and social order.
Perhaps that’s why I long so deeply for solidarity.
But these chains won’t break—no matter how hard I try.
They feel eternal, their grip unwavering and cold.

Why do we become blind,
When we love someone so?
And blind again with hate,
When we let it grow?

We see no flaw in one,
And only flaws in some.
Why do our hearts so easily
Make our minds its gun?

I have known you as far as my memory goes.
I have observed you, watched you grow—
As I did too.

But I wonder why we never talked,
’Cause we never talked before,
Was all I could think back then.

And even now,
I think it’s still the same—
’Cause we never talked before,
And maybe… we never will.