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AmberLynne Jul 2015
I show the world my flowers,
daisies flowing from my fingertips,
smiling with the brightness of tulips,
and leaving a trail of poppy footprints
with each step I take.

I present this spring-themed Monet masterpiece,
careful to conceal the chaotic overcrowding
pushing, building pressure beneath the surface.
This rootbound torture belies the floral illusion,
and if you peer closely at the pretty pastels,
you'll see they're nothing more than
brush strokes and broken hopes.
6.5.2015
SøułSurvivør Dec 2015
@@@ i am @@@
@@@ flowers in a *** @@@
@@@@ growing but a slave @@@@
@@@@ to the container i am in @@@@
@@@@ my planter is my grave @@@@
@@@@ my gardener @@@@
@@@ my @@@*
J
A
I
L
E
R
my *** is just a cell • and though
i'm watered carefully • my
life is living hell • i die
slowly in prison • my
roots cannot break
free • please plant
me in a garden •
for you are killing
me • give my roots a place to spread
save me from this fate • i will die sure
and slowly • please! it's not too late! •
i'm just some flowers in a *** • but i'm
living and i sing • respect that i have
purpose • for i'm a living thing •
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SoulSurvivor
(C) 12/9/2015


we all need room to grow
Devin Asher Corry  Jul 2012
C107
Bolted digits, rootbound to acrid heavens,

ostrichly I swallow sand, begging the heaviness

to parch my flaming veins and ceaselessly flowing sorrows.



Sparrow’s fleeting raison d'être, sipping eyes of iceberg hue,

quenching mine own of verdant leaf; long-awaited view

to fill my soul’s windows’ empty absinthe pools.



No somber adieus, simply one smile of lightning.

His passing thunder will resound beneath my ribs

from the arrows of his glacial spheres

forevermore.
JP Goss  Sep 2019
353. Immobile
JP Goss Sep 2019
We were never meant to stay
In one place, neither seat nor heart,
For very long, but here we are
At rest, letting our roots take hold
And creep into the voids and pipes.
In spite of the human trope toward
Things which keep them alive,
It’s clear, by the way we must smoke
To get some fresh air
Away from the dust and self-importance
In the vents
That we have to **** ourselves
Just to socialize,
That, to go anywhere, enjoy anyone else
We have to break the rules.
My haunches ache when should my feet
From walking,
My back aches from stresses of the head
Not from lifting,
All this bodywork comes from being
Immobile, the pain of sitting still,
The new smoking—and what am I left with
But rootbound habits and new fears
Of diseases exchanging dis-ease?

— The End —