Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Wizard of the earth; I am the botanist or yore -
Conversing with the stars until the stars can hear no more.
I read them pharmacopoeias from catacombs of lore  
To fill the vacant sky with verse of those who lived before.

Poet of the sky and the ever glowing sun -
A seven-headed serpent lays in wait upon my tongue.
I sing in sacred stanzas from a phantom in my lungs
To make my spirit rise before the day is yet begun.
Unfinished fragment from something i wrote a few years ago. needs work.
Z Apr 1
31
we are more than sinew;
i think of you constantly,
how we are of botany
the study of things that grow together

as i entwine with you
you call my name audibly,
my blush is my honesty
you say my freckled skin is feather soft

and i believe you because i always will
and i'll relieve you til you are fulfilled
until the spinning earth has stopped
James Lo Feb 10
We are our favourite flowers
Steeped in a full vase
Seasons pass -
with the dipping water.

We forget  / or were not
taught. To add our own flower
food. To cut our own
stems. To cultivate our own
cuttings.

Seek not to be
crisp, divine, distinct
For it is already
apparent.

Be it if you
are fanned, variegated or needled
voluptuous or diffident
fresh or heartfelt  
Or just ****** herbaceous

We are own favourites.
We forget that to be in the vase
was a choice
For we can always resettle, reposition, repot,
for the coming season.
It's never too late. Never.
Sometimes they're many
Sometimes they're few
Unpractically pretty
But they will do

Flowers in my garden
The only things certain
The only faces I know
Who'd remain true as they grow

They may blossom like my growing fear
The may wither like my sanity
They are stifled by the thorns
Like the skin I'm in, well-worn
They are suppressed by the weeds
Like the guilt in me

Flowers in my garden
I am quite certain
We're the same
But I'm embodied in flesh

Flowers in my garden
I beg your pardon?
What do you mean that you don't exist?

If you leave, what'll happen to me?
Tried to write a positive poem, but I'm not one to lie in my poems.
Marleny Apr 2018
Heart break is the seed that
pollinates from chest to chest.
So it should not come as a surprise when
a crimson rose blossoms behind the sternum
with a wealth of thorns surrounding it.
Evolution has dictated that
If anyone comes too close,
they will get pricked in the process.
A subtle form of protection, but also a warning.
A "Come no further than this."
---

The thing about roses is that
they are capable of self pollinating.
Sometimes we just do this to ourselves.
We get off to our own misery,
and as crude as that sounds,
for a lot of us,
that has been the truth.


A broken heart can only protect itself
the best way it knows how, but
when did protection become repression?
It is too easy for the same thorns that defend the rose
to become its own enemy, choking the flower
out of the nutrients it needs.


We can justify all we want that
if somebody truly wanted to pick us first
to put us first,
then they should be able to withstand
a little pain to reach us...
And some do,
but should that be the standard,
to hurt someone and see if they stay?


That is how cross pollination occurs.
We **** around and hurt people
by refusing vulnerability
that is owed to them.
And after all the *******,
the other person can heal
and grow stronger from the experience,
or the rose they have wilts
and a new one blooms in its place,
one that contains undesirable characteristics
that would not have existed if
we had just loved openly in the first place.


Heart break should not beget heart break...

Why do roses symbolize love anyway?
nicoarty Dec 2016
The gallows swing in my gown
how my grievous allure
axiom, snares me down
an appellative of harrowing quintessence
wearing lilies like an aureole
                                                      -crowned in by anemone and asphodel
the paraded gait of my soul

absence of faithful apparitions
cogent til their demise by my own dolor
nihility is my dear conviction
to dwell on dreamless sleep once more

alas lucidity comes abrupt
falsehoods pellucid in the eyes of divinity
tainted now i cite apprehension
bear garlands of wormwood, for i am corrupt
still gallows shall swing in my gown
whether in repose or in waking
the gallows swing in my gown
in knots the Styx shall be waiting.
"To die, to sleep -
To sleep, perchance to dream - ay, there's the rub,
For in this sleep of death what dreams may come" - Hamlet
Abigail Shaw Oct 2015
My duvet is a map,
It remembers all I’ve said,
And I’ve slept here and loved here and cried here,
All of my demons, awake in this bed
And I know I’m selfish, I’m unkind,
But I won’t apologise for half my crimes,
Because you’re closed up like a fist,
Ready to strike,
But I’d still lay with you here,
And we can set our fear alight,
I keep waiting for the bad news,
In every declaration,
And do the ghosts of your past,
Saturate our conversations?
I can’t hear you singing in the shower,
But I know the sounds of your heart,
You’ve grown entangled in my muscles,
And to tear you apart,
Would be a haemorrhage,
I would be bleeding soul for hours,
But take all you want from me,
Don’t ever give me flowers,
I can’t stand to watch them wither,
And I never say goodbye,
I'll tattoo a garden on my body,
And those will never die.
Abigail Shaw Dec 2014
It stretches,
Blotting out the sun in jagged ribbons,
Standing below it, my shadow is lost,
Absorbed,
If it fell, so would I.

— The End —