Little yellow daffodils,
Swaying in the wind.
Pretty yellow daffodils,
By the roots they're pinned.
Little Singing mourning doves,
Sweetly fluttering in.
I plucked up a daffodil,
Whispering of sin.
I love my little daffodil,
To it's unhappy disdain.
The life of my daffodil is short,
Barely any more remains.
It's my fault, my pretty daffodil,
That you will die young.
But remember my soft lullaby,
I always gently sung.
You are love, my little daffodil,
A pleasure mixed with lust.
My peachy little metaphor,
Dying so quickly it's unjust.
I honestly don't even know anymore. I'm sitting at home with a migraine, so I wrote a poem. No inspiration, no real meaning to me, but I still wrote it.