poetry, poetry;
my little fairy,
i cut open my wrist
and lovely daisies blossomed!

poetry, tiny pretty ghost,
is it a good sign?
would you heal me, please?
i feel their roots in my veins...

poetry, you silly phantom,
it isn't pleasant anymore!
they're ******* my blood,
there's vultures in my bloodflow.

poetry, silver fanged wraith,
your roots are in my bones,
it's a temple crushing down.
the past is hunting me down.

poetry, my little fairy.
i'm nothing more than dust.
i love you, but i fall apart.
you brought my old demons back.

poetry, my little fairy;
i cut my wrist open,
and lovely rotten daisies bloomed!

Sunflower and daisies
Got me all hooked
We were never supposed to happen
But then you ambushed.

All is still amongst my little waves of ebb and flow,
yet I am still as the traveler holding a luminescence
close inside as a lantern, the light through the
crevices of my soul was once the constellations,
I am in the journey to seek the ones to hold it
with those who are as swaying daisies with music
moving through their ether that is far yet near,
the snowflakes from the high mountains
fall gentle on my skin and theirs as though
they are in never-ending tales.

you will thrive in your own cocoon—
legless arthropod wriggling out
of its leaved shell, crunching
on the stem of a marigold’s shrivel.
you crawl up the leaves like they’re
the steps of a winding staircase,
circling and circling to one day
step out of your cocoon.

you are your own skin—
a wing ripped in figure
eights of formative tearing.
at the bottom of a
wind-leaned green tower,
you are torn down as if starting all
over again, away from the pace of
a hundred other caterpillar’d creatures.

you are not quite a monarch butterfly,
not yet the zebra-patterned black and white,
but you bloom in the form of a familiar marigold, a daisy’d curve—
thriving as a flower, swaying and alive.
you must visit the filial leaves and trace
their veins gently.

soon you will thrive in your own cocoon;
as those plant’d seeds will
soon leave legless arthropods wriggling—
for how would a caterpillar’s cocoon wither
without your leaves crinkling beneath it?