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Love me
like a flower,
call me the forget-me-not
or, rather
teach me how
so that my petals may bloom
as you have taught me to
sweet sun, that I may soon love a lot
I have a thing for the forget-me-not flowers, especially in writing haha
Eloisa 2d
While lilies are asleep
Her dream has taken its wings
A promise of spring
Drip, drip, drip, a constant rhythm as the raindrops collided against her umbrella, protecting her like a knight, his enemies small but many as she goes about her day carrying with her a bouquet of flowers picked along her travels whispering to herself.

It's the details she wishes to rope in and hold forever as she examined the wet spot on this particular petal of her freshly picked bouquet, magnifying all the perfect imperfection, because she sees herself, and there's beauty in that too.
         You've turned into dirt.

Twisted away in fragile positions,
You've turned into dirt.
          How does it feel to be this vulnerable?

To be plucked from your home, and bought with dirt to be sold off to the husband who forgot his wife's birthday?

To be called 'beautiful', only to be left rotting away?
To sit beside a bed of 'beautiful' red roses, who think they'll be safe forever. To know they'll turn into you, you who has moulded into dirt.

These eyes fall on you now,
   they feel guilt,
      they feel remorse,
(they feel happy?)
          they feel like a murderer.

They run to drench you with water.

                           The poor white tulips,
                                              and the poor pink roses
                     will you be fixed from this phase of dirt?
Here is to those bouquets of flowers the lucky ones received.
Perhaps, you were lucky,
perhaps the flowers were not.

PS. I've written a poem after a year so it's definitely not my best work, not even close. Perhaps as I continue, it may get better?
internetgirl Apr 30
i was taking pictures of you
with flowers in your hair
and i couldn't help but notice
the way your eyes held the sunlight
like the way
tia Apr 26
she looked at me with interest
inevitable, i suppose
she had lavender kisses
and honey filled whispers
that stuck to my neck
she told me that i was lovely
and that the lovely get crushed
but i surely felt nothing
and smiled all the while
it was not my innocence
ill play the game she asks of me
a liar's entanglement
i do not know the meaning of this one ****
In their paper skin
Under the burning sun
Smile the paper flowers
In bracts, pink and white
purple or orange
Colourful red,
never fade or bleed
Evergreen in their woody homes
They fly with the wind
In their paper skin
M Apr 24
Most of the time, I feel like walking on my dress at the side of the road,
but sometimes I am here writing in my notebook.
I feel like frolicking on the meadows and be captivated by the thorns of the rose.
But I am here sitting on an old sofa with the static television,
I feel like being kissed on late afternoons,
But I am here, drinking cold water on cold nights,
I feel like speaking about the great wonders of the universe.
But I am here, disgusted by the bitter world.

Sometimes, it is most of the time but the saddening part of all of it.
Is longing to my most of the time while being stuck in sometimes,
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