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if you're feeling sinister tonight, come inside the darkroom. picture yourself pouring over mental images of a demure young botanist, loitering around the trapdoor of nostalgia, kissing someone new for the first time.

now imagine she is conscious and clustered in titillating blur, her smile beachy and airborne, with only the slightest suggestion that something troublesome is lurking underneath.

can you see her double exposure? totally tranquil, she poses with an arsenal of poisonous plants, as if she’s already slipped their venom into your tea.

Amelia Sapp Nov 2022
the arching arboretum anticipates my alliterations
telling too timeless tales of Latin language
binomial botany begins by being barbarously bleak
dioecious dogwoods dance doing dainty droops
leaves lie lamely, larking like sweet starlight shine.
i was inspired to write this because of my botany class
blondespells Dec 2020
I sail to you through the great unknown
And tip toe on your white lines of gray matter
An acidic, atomic baby light blonde
  with a heart of stone trapped in a yellow rain cloud  

In the syndicate of the hazel night moon
I smell their broken stems of wire
Wrapping my thighs in a sealed cocoon
Dancing in a brimstone fire

Melting in the midnight winds

She can’t wait to roam free tonight
Feel the air flow between the thistle of my thyme    
And find her midtown morphine  
To soothe the demons, dancing in her mind

Dispersing on a front porch swing
I scatter in the wisp of an ivory snow
Break a rhyme scheme, scream for rain
Pray for laughter,  bleed for growth
blondespells Dec 2020
A freak and fruitful flower
I twirled in a frantic field of dandelions
The roots felt like the bald skin crawling on my bones
as they ****** the sunlight off of the structure of my stems
With the wisdom that the asphodels would find out
About the moment I planted myself in a hurricane last summer
He asked me to stay until the lilies grew back
Then his garden began to grow inside of me
during the spring time, and I think I must have drowned
Or maybe it was Autumn, when I found my piece of mind
I sat still long enough to allow myself to stay
If I refused to swallow the worms who ******* my tongue
If I was pure enough to drink the poison out of my vines
In a diligent essence of dignity, I might have tried
but in a clear perception of reality, I realized
I would always remain
A freak and fruitful flower
Same as I was, same as I ever would be.
Brian Yule Sep 2020
Fragrant tinted lure
Saccharine glistening sundew snare
Cruel allure to rule
Wizard of the earth; I am the botanist of 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.
James Lo Feb 2019
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

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

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.
Asominate Jan 2019
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
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