Flowers slowly grow up my throat,
  as blood dribbles down my chin,
      and thorns squeeze my aching heart.
           But it's alright, because it's for him.

           And as I lie in the dirt, crying,
       I reminisce about everything
   for I know that I will die
In this garden of unsaid things

My heart aches
pain spilling over
watering the plants
that grow in the dirt above you
as flowers do sprout

I pick them
you never were a fan
of how they swayed gently in the wind
tethered by roots to the ground
you preferred to move wild and free
and though your body can no more,
I feel your soak with me
so I do run along with you

lillies.
they're pretty.

i see them
on my morning walks --
they adorn the footpath.

im about to buy some
in a boquet,
tied in with some tulips
and leaves as spacers.

they're for my new partner.

but whenever i see
these lillies,
i can only
think
of
you.

maybe because your essence
was just like the lily's --
you were elegant,
compassionate,
and you loved everyone
with the biggest
heart and smiles.

i know its wrong,
to still think of you.

but these lillies --
they're everywhere i go.
i wouldn't take it as a sign
but i know it means
something.

i shouldn't be buying these
for my new partner,
she isn't elegant
like you,
or have a big smile
like you did,
so why do i buy them?
or walk the same footpath
every morning
just
to
see
them?

i don't know.

And what of a flower
whose petals fall in a sacrificial ritual
to make room for new ones to grow

I am a cherry blossom in the breeze
facing the bright blue sky with glee.
My petals dance in morning bliss
with the butterflies flying free.

I spy on the little girl.
Her hair was filled with flowers,
her eyes, bright as the sun.
She had love to give—
and gave it freely:
to the old man by the sea,
the woman grieving her son,
the butterfly with a broken wing.

I spy on the little girl.
The flowers in her hair have dried,
her eyes now quiet as the night.
She still has love to give.
But the old man drifted with the tide,
the woman lost her mind,
and no one wants what's left.

I spy on the little girl.
I reach through the forest,
step into the clouds.
I will hold her hand.
I still have love to give—
anyway.

She's a pure hearted girl
with the happiest soul
She talks to the moon
listens to the trees
speaks with the animals
and compliments the flowers

Yet, often she feels sad
because she loves too much
and thinks too deep
Her nights are sometimes dark
But every time
she pulls herself back together
and decides
that her personality
is too positive
to be so negative.

L.C.

The flowers bloomed
I cut them down
You gave me the seeds