In this moment
I’m a petal of rose
Often mocked that I am one
By other flowers
Who look up to the same sun
I feel plucked from my root
Mangled and ****
I was born bare
That which was my beauty
But in this crude exposure
trapped in some snare
My skin burns in ******
I feel ghastly blows of wind
And wailing typhoon
Dent rustic parts of my skin
Scream its cacophony louder than my whimper of pain
Making me beg for a light drizzle of rain
I wonder how I would be
If I were a dandelion
I could let my fragments loose
And watch their flight
Into ethereal sunshine
I’m a trampled rose
Like the woe in Christ’s song
I’ve plagiarised the words
It seems
But this is how it feels
To be forlorn
And I have a mind of my own
Alas! That’s what I thought
Until I learnt that it’s supremely influenced
tainted and stale
Like a can of delight
Only store bought
off a bargain
What if I were only a little flower
whose shoot grew
Piercing out of a rocky crevice?
A small star
trying hard to shine its hardest
in its constellation
Blotted with sparkling lights?
How can I make myself known?
Do I have to?
Is it a sin? To be alone?
To be a petal of rose and please you?
Can’t I be my own?
A flower that doesn’t have a Latin root
That can shy away if touched
And bloom when in mood?
No, I really don’t want to stick to a season
And have visitors
gawk at me then
I want to be really loved in person
Even when I’m dying
and my stalk is bent
now, I wonder
Does a flower think so much?
Does it write a poem
When its feelings are fractured
And they need a crutch?
I’ve seen it be
Just lucid and carefree
And, all of a sudden
I’m jolted with an epiphany
of simply being.
Aug 9, 2018
Aug 9, 2018 at 3:45 PM UTC
In this moment
I’m a petal of rose
Often mocked that I am one
By other flowers
Who look up to the same sun
I feel plucked from my root
Mangled and ****
I was born bare
That which was my beauty
But in this crude exposure
trapped in some snare
My skin burns in ******
I feel ghastly blows of wind
And wailing typhoon
Dent rustic parts of my skin
Scream its cacophony louder than my whimper of pain
Making me beg for a light drizzle of rain
I wonder how I would be
If I were a dandelion
I could let my fragments loose
And watch their flight
Into ethereal sunshine
I’m a trampled rose
Like the woe in Christ’s song
I’ve plagiarised the words
It seems
But this is how it feels
To be forlorn
And I have a mind of my own
Alas! That’s what I thought
Until I learnt that it’s supremely influenced
tainted and stale
Like a can of delight
Only store bought
off a bargain
What if I were only a little flower
whose shoot grew
Piercing out of a rocky crevice?
A small star
trying hard to shine its hardest
in its constellation
Blotted with sparkling lights?
How can I make myself known?
Do I have to?
Is it a sin? To be alone?
To be a petal of rose and please you?
Can’t I be my own?
A flower that doesn’t have a Latin root
That can shy away if touched
And bloom when in mood?
No, I really don’t want to stick to a season
And have visitors
gawk at me then
I want to be really loved in person
Even when I’m dying
and my stalk is bent
now, I wonder
Does a flower think so much?
Does it write a poem
When its feelings are fractured
And they need a crutch?
I’ve seen it be
Just lucid and carefree
And, all of a sudden
I’m jolted with an epiphany
of simply being.
