You are a wilted flower,
one that uses its tears to water itself.
But you are not growing, little one,
you are drowning.

Why, with the sun shining so brightly
and the earth grounding the others,
do you still feel so terribly
cold and shaky?

Your beauty does not trick me.
Sing me your woes,
there is no reward for trapping them between your roots.

let me be your garden

Father always preached-
Stay away from the drowning ones,
they will cling to you
as they cry for air.

But you are so quiet, little one.
Your silence is slowly translating
into the screams you have withheld
for so long.

Oh, you are too young
to be wilting so soon.
Tell me, little one,
when did you fall in love with the moon?