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wyatt Oct 29
Dandelions in my eyes,
delicate and frost white.
Everything is fuzzy,
fluffy dreams take off.

Muffle my mind, love.
I feel you in my bones.
That dress brushes gently,
your soft skin caresses mine.

I must take caution,
a simple exhale could
blow you away in the wind.
I’ll hold onto you tight.
Awtumn Oct 4
Have you ever seen a sunflower
In love with the sun?
Or watched a dandelion
Like wishes on the breeze?

Have you ever sat with the river reeds
As they sing about their ocean dream?
Or listened to the trees
When they tell the stories of their rings?

Have you ever picked wildflowers
Because they remind you of her?
Or given hope to a daisy
When a rose was chosen instead?

I used to want the romance
Like the beauty of a rose.
But I saw what love was really like
And changed my heart’s desire.

I’m not the girl for roses,
Too harsh for their soft love.
And much too bitter
For their sweet scent.

My heart is covered in ice
Too cold for delicate petals.
But daffodils have learned
How to survive the winter.
Tori Sep 30
Some color themselves blue,
Blowing 'till they've no breath.
Others just pull out the fluff
And throw their wish heavily to the earth.
But then there are those who sit and wait
And the breeze gently carries the seedlings away
Granting that wish which lay unknowingly on their heart.
Do not rush love before its time.
Amare Leslie Sep 6
Small dandelion seeds
Glide into the timeless breeze
For a better home
Eva Aug 26
My world
aways sunset
and dizzy

Colours flash quicker
when I close my eyes

I like
to catch
falling things

Or floating things

-Maybe dandelion seeds

I will always trail my fingers along
every wooden beam

And write wishes in the dust
asking voices you can’t hear

Should I ? Should I ? Should I?
By the sea,
I watched as
the thoughts
within my mind
faded with the white
effervescence, I am
wrapped in a cashmere
blanket as I drink my
cafe au lait, the wind
tousled my hair as I
contemplated the
silence of the hour,
within its watercolor
becoming the gentle,
soft soul of mine
seeking to understand
the meaning of love,
even though,
I am misunderstood,
and so, I sit here,
content as a dandelion,
fragile, yet still yearning
to dream.
Amanda Jun 25
I am a dandelion swaying back and forth
A windswept soldier, started a seed
Stretched towards sun, looking like a beautiful flower
Inside I know I will always be a ****.
When you look at a dandelion it can be seen as a **** or a wish

pioneering and experimenting
in search for myself,
I stopped looking
after the sixteenth year in life
as I planted a seed in a place
where nothing grows
and blossomed like a
beautifully, unblemished
nuisance of the dandelion.

but, if the world was the
gardner of life, it sprayed
**** killer on my soul and
continously pulled me from
the roots in hopes that I would
one day sprout into an orchid
or a water lily or a daffodil,
trying desperately to mold
me the way they wanted to
but I'm no tulip you could
easily pluck from the
moistened soil, just the
aforementioned ****
deep-rooted into the
hard concrete.

each year after that,
I fed myself plant food
on the compost heap of
jobs, women, *****, madness,
fathering and mothering
two children, cooking
cheap meals and avoiding
religion and fashion and
politics and responsibilites and
marriage just so I concentrate
on surviving while feeling
brutalized and institutionalized
by the roses of society,
until the day came when I stepped
in the bear trap of literacy and
was confined with a typewriter.

and now I'm married with responsibilities,
fathering my two children and
the meals have gotten dainty,
the woman are gone,
the ***** has prospered,
the madness is here to stay
and I'm still impassive towards
religion, fashion and politics.

so why am I clocking in and out
of life for 23 hours a day
for everyone else so I sparingly
enjoy one hour of the day to
be myself and write?

because the world creates chaos
and I take their chaos and
create poetry and just when you
thought they've completely
diminished my soul,
a little piece of ash still glimmers
in the thick gray haze where the
victory garden dances with
burning flowers.

no one in this world,
not even my sworn enemy,
should have to
fight for
work for
just to be

and if the end of
each day isn't a
5 or 6 hundred page
novel to write about
and bookmarked with
a crushed daisy
then what the ****
are we even doing here?
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