There is a heartfelt flower,
genuine and beating.
It yearns and reaches
and curls up inside,
fluttering at every touch,
of those real and affectionate.

There is a heartfelt flower,
genuine and bleeding.
It bleeds and spills
and twists up inside,
weeping drops of red,
all crumpled and stained.

There is a heartfelt flower,
genuine and wilting.
It drains and ebbs
and shrivels up inside,
turning into empty bones,
cast aside and torn apart.

There is a heartfelt flower,
genuine and withered.
If only they could see it
during its full bloom.