the other day I picked a flower
It was a long walk home
I like this one because it smells nice
But I don't really like flowers
I don't know it's name
Nor am I aware of its connection to the tree

By the time I got home
It Looked tired.
Didn't smell as nice anymore
It made my journey good though.

But I didn't notice
That it started dying
From the moment I picked it.
It kept its smile and never lost face
And it made it seem okay
To take it along with me
Now it's dead
Because it lied.