I see you pluck heedless flowers

from the ground where they grow

dressing your narcissism as love. 



And you put it in a vase, to sooth

the gnawing fact that it is nothing

more than a casket. She waits do die.



You think her beautiful, so convinced

only you deserve to handle her charms,

yet in your watch she slowly withers.



Love, you can keep picking flowers 

but none of them will stay

until you realize it doesn’t need you. 



she thrives in the wild by her roots,

by the ground where she stands.


you can watch her bloom
without tearing her apart.


that is how you must love.