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gr Jul 2016
you leave me here to dry and rot;
a daisy in the dust.

wallowing in my sorrows,
i beg for your return.

pleading and beseeching
for one more chance
to prove my worth.

it seems as if you only appear
to pluck, pluck, pluck
my petals away.

you leave me petal-less;
to most i'd have no point.

i have to use my senses
to find a better way.

i pray,
i hope,
i dream:
some day someone else will come
and i'll grow new petals,
one-by-one.
complexify Jun 2016
I am a storm
Forced into this
Weak form.

Hey little daisy
If you think you loved me
You're wrong.
Nah, not because I said so
Neither because I was wrong.

I am a storm.
In my journey
I destroy things.
I destroy life.
I destroy happiness.
And do you know why?

It's in me.

It's the reason I exist.

If you still bare to say
That you're in love with me
Know that you'll run from me
Like everyone else.

So go.
Keep your stupid feelings to yourself.
No one should love me. I'm destructive. I've been trying to tell you, Nisa. But you're just too into yourself and your feelings. I did love you. I never lied to you that night. I could just move on from her and go on with you. I realized that a storm cannot live beside a beautiful daisy like you so I decided to turn things around and make you leave me.
Tatiana May 2016
In a dismal house there was a table.
It was dark, wooden, and old
and on that table sat a mug
that had "Number 1 Dad!"
written on the front.

An old man was talking happily to the mug.
Though his eyes looked tired
as they darted to look at the empty chairs
and his voice was growing feeble.

The man sat in one of the five chairs
that surrounded the old table.
The other chairs were empty.
They already had gathered dust.

The mug he spoke to
did not contain anything to drink,
but it held four daisies.
All had pushed through the dirt long ago.

When the dirt in his mug began to shift
the old man didn't even move the cup.
It's like he didn't even notice
when the fifth daisy pushed up.

In a dismal house there was a table.
It was dark, wooden, and old
and on that table sat a mug
that had "Number 1 Dad!"
written on the front.

In that mug a fifth daisy pushed up.
...
What happened to that family?
They pushed too many daisies up.
What does that mean?
I don't know! That's what Dad told me!
Dad never told me that!
Well that's because I'm older than you!
So what! I'm not the one who lost their--
SHUT UP
...
I have an interesting idea that I will be trying with the little dialogue at the end. It may not make sense right now, but it will with more poems to come. :)
Payton Elizabeth Apr 2016
Every time I pick at a flower,
the last petal always reads
"He loves me not"
So finally I just stopped picking
I'm a Beautiful Fool

Daisy Buchanan said,
It's the best thing a woman could be -
a Beautiful Fool.

That's me.
Luna Craft Mar 2016
I feel the daisies sprouting in the cracks of my skin when I see them
Blooming with all their might, screaming
They go towards the light, he is all the sun I need
Burning, they blister out like tumors, pain that echos in my body
It doesn't really hurt however, the good times out weigh the bad
They attract butterflies that well in and out of my stomach
The roots choke the words I wish I would have said
When I explain this to him, he sounds sad, sorry
I try to tell him how it really feels, all the gory details
And the small but beautiful ones, like how these flowers let you forget the world
They let me float with him, weightless and light
I understand that this is more then a flower, it is love
And it is something I will never be able to describe clearly
Sarah Feb 2016
I've never been a proud rose.
I've never been a wallflower.

I was always just a daisy.
One of thousands in the meadow.

I was like everyone else. But different. Somehow.
The old game of knowing the own worth.
**** you, Dandelion.
You are a bitter plague.
Your putrid reputation
sows a discording stay.

Your spread your potent seed,
a curse among the others;
how will thy beauty flourish
when murdered is thy mother?

Rose has her vanity,
Daisy has her life;
but you hold a talent
for fertilizing strife.

**** you, Dandelion.
What a pity to be you.
Thy beauty holds no power,
thy talent ruins you.
Kate Willis Feb 2016
It’s the color of the sun
The one with rays that beat down
And warms your skin on a bright
Summer day.

It’s the daisy garden,
The one just outside your front door;
It’s scent, so fresh and sweet
Fills your nostrils with the smell of summer.

And the sweet, sharp wheat
The ones that make you sneeze
And yet you can’t help
But drag your fingers lightly against their flesh
And take in their musty scent.

Or the shutters of your neighbor’s cottage,
The ones with the soft pastel that stands out among
The white siding
And the pale door

It’s the bow in your daughter’s hair,
The one that she fought
But you insisted,
Because it’s beautiful
The way she looks in that hue.

And it’s the color of your happiness,
The one that shows through the bright smile
That stretches across your face
And bleeds golden joy.
I love the idea of describing color without specifically telling the color within the poem until the end. Refer to "Red" for the first installment of this series.
Daisy, Daisy, how lovely
to be a banal child.
Safe from harm and hurt and death,
your roots do hold you wild.

Your life doth last some while
as you carry on
nourished by your parent ground;
shan't your woes be gone?

But oh, how lovely it would be
to be the blessed Rose;
what charm, what awe, what livelihood
one of that kind knows.

Daisy, Daisy, how lovely
to live a mundane while.
Your beauty lies in lengthy life,
your commonplace beguiles.
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