She's a pattern and yet so complex-- An entity of incompleteness bound by the voices that tell her "she is nothing"-- A frame unstructured and yet paved by the scars life left on her-- Not an epitome of daintiness but the reflection of a clay that's been molded then chipped to bring forth all at once rugged, sharp, smooth and rough edges-- Multifaceted for she smiles in the light, laughs in the crowds, cries in the night and cringes at the slightest mention of the word "love"-- Self-conscious, never once hearing of a King who thought the world of her-- The irony of dodging people who care only to fall into the traps of the ones who would never care to figure her out-- Similar to a pressed rose-- Pressed into the lives of others, leaving behind residue to the point of self dehydration-- If tears are as perfume, heaven is filled with bottles marked with her name; Daisy-- Born delicate, pure, & soft to the touch-- But over time the petals have been dried , shriveled up into brown nothings that fall fearfully as another heart dares to come near--