Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Anastasia Jun 8
roses in my ribs
lilies on my lips
pearls in my pockets
tulips on my tongue
honeysuckles on my heart
tiger flowers on my thighs
marigolds on my mirror
you make me bloom ♥
You fill the bowl
To wash the pots
You make sure the water
Is scorching hot

Plenty of fairy
To cut through the gunge
Then into the deep
Do your marigolds plunge

But in a split second
You cry out in pain
A blood curdling scream
There’s a ******* hole in them again!

Your fingers are singed
You jump up and down
Wrestling with the rubber
Dragging it down

Over your arms
As fast as you can
Revealing the blisters
All over your hands

How on earth
Did these marigolds go
And foil me again
By acquiring a hole?

They’re ****** brand new
Only worn them once!
Yet somehow they’re torn
And my digits are toast

Why does this happen?
Is there no God?
Invent some ******* rubber
Immune to the ****

Of a mystery hole punch
That wins every time
Incinerating my poor fingers
As I try to remove grime!

Surely there’s an answer
An invention for that -
If only rubber gloves
Were made of shellac.
maxime Mar 2017
With the ivy on my house, I had to reconsider what flowers I wanted to add to my garden. I never expected to be gifted a hydrangea sapling that I planted beneath the wall of ivy. I was much more beautiful than I had originally thought, and I was pleasantly surprised to see that the hydrangeas were able to grow and flourish on their own alongside the ivy. The scent of hydrangeas became comforting to me.
maxime Mar 2017
Not much later, a patch of ivy crept up the side of my house, right above the garden bed nestled against the outer wall. I didn't worry about it at first, I treated it as an after thought until I noticed that it had eventually covered the whole side of my house. The thick ivy had cast a shadow over my little side garden and my black eyed susans were dying. I tended to them until my knees were bruised and my hands were matted with dirt, but I could not save them. They died. Eventually I grew used to the ivy; I grew to appreciate its unique beauty and held it in fondness, but I would never forget my beloved black eyed susans.
maxime Mar 2017
The marigolds had inspired me to add black eyed susans to my garden. Their yellow petals were enticing and their black centers lured me in. There was just something about them that kept me coming back to tend to them, to waste my time in order for them to flourish. The marigolds I had previously planted had died due to my neglect, but I found I didn't miss them much when my attention was focused on the black eyed susans.
Madeline Kapinos Feb 2015
“You are worth more than the marigolds”
I am assured by my loving mother as a child
I believe her because the beauty in everything flow’rs and flourishes
when you’re young
The world is yours to take, everyone is yours to meet, everything is yours to do;
and I believe her.

“You are worth more than the marigolds”
My first friend at school proclaims,
and I believe them.
We’ve tackled ***** training and preschool, now onto the playground and phonics!
We run and run together, taking the world like we’ve
whispered once before;
and I believe them.

“You are worth more than the marigolds”
The middle school test scores announce,
and I believe them.
Primary school is in the past and I’m ready for responsibility!
I put on makeup to feel pretty, care about my grades more than the teachers believe and flash my smile to the boys who spit “compliments” at my feet;
and I believe them.

“You are worth more than the marigolds”
but.. I don’t believe them anymore.
I’ve gained just enough confidence to smile at everyone in the halls in case they are having a bad day.
Suddenly my youthful euphoric vision is graffitied with hateful words and violence.
I run and constantly chase the innocence of the world,
being surrounded by darkness.
My self esteem has hit an all time low. Why is the world this way?
My friends and I chase what we used to believe and end up in deep holes;
and I don’t believe them anymore.

“You are worth more than the marigolds”
And it doesn’t matter.
I have lost all hope of finding that beauty.
My heart is an aching mess of “I love you”’s
But all I hear is “you are meaningless”
Slowly these phrases of deep hate sear into my soul
I hear them every day and every night
You are meaningless
You are not worthy
You could not possibly be good enough
Until I wake up one dismal morning to realize that I have been defined by the ones around me.

“You are worth more than the marigolds”
..and enough!
Because even my friends who say I’m worth something turn around and sneer at others like they can’t too be loved.
Because while the world screams “I hate people” I whisper
“but I don’t”.
But that doesn’t matter in the grand scheme of things
because we’ll find someone who loves us, right?
No.
Our words between just us mean nothing if we spin around and
spit in others’ faces.

And we know we hurt because we’ve been hurt but we don’t stop, none of us stop.

I dream of a world that screams a vulnerable
“I love you”
out into the world instead of a pulsing
“I hate you”
And a world that remembers that we are all worthy of love and not only the kind that makes you blush.

“You are worth more than the marigolds”
The phrase I’ve heard since I was in my mother’s gentle hold
can only mean so much when you think you’re crumpled.
Stashed away until you’re needed
always feeling so defeated
but the truth
not told enough
to our weakened souls
We are all worth more than the marigolds
I had gotten so used to self-hatred
That when he called me
"Beautiful"
I wondered why,
Why in the world
Would a bee leave
Roses, marigolds, sunflowers
And choose to be in the mud?
"Because YOU," he said,
"You are my lotus".
Martin Narrod Apr 2014
what is more gentle,
than this pillow of the light?
a life narrowing,
in a bright feather dance
that sweeps across the sea
or covers our faces in shadows.
where do you go when you leave me?
now I am nocturnal,
a bliss bandit,
cooing at stars
one thousand miles high.
shaking like a tea kettle,
I am the black *** black,
shaking,
shivering.
Swallowing pieces of your light,
in the back-room jungle where I sew,
tears to the bottoms of my eyes,
where no one ever goes.


I know days,
hours,
one minute
where I gambled time
and stood behind you
with my fingers
on your shoulders
and my mouth on your neck.
What it takes to be apart,
split in half,
shucked from birth;
it takes every thing I
ever owned,
every note I ever sang,
each breath that I will make-
some thought I stand up on,
my knees quivering below me.
five kinds of drugs
just to see straight, to hold
my hands steady or
sleep at night.
your lavender flavor
is still in me.
you in me.
one.
two.
soaking in this forgotten city,
Earth's heroes drifting away.
I could never eat again, or
cast a spell, or touch the same.
while burning I may never
stand
on these same two feet again.


four years,
a photograph.
one voice,
softening into my skin,
that I never may forget.
that this beard is of
an old man, should I never
count again
blessings or songs.
I dive into the flame
and study this journey backwards.
so I should never forget,
everything so serious
as this
as you, in me.
In Response to a Poem by Leila R.
Martin Narrod Apr 2014
Your colors are so heavy, how dare I, I cannot sleep. Years inundated under, through skin coils, marigold fields. Yellow crocuses, orange California poppies. Moors of cattle ranchers, yokes of oxen. Plasticine uber-confidence, silky white-skinned testubular thrice people harmonies. Blisses of contagion, contagious bliss. Wrists and incisors, tying down in a bedroom, waking up to live harps and choruses. You dance like you're so alive, but I'm so alive I can't dance. Or breathe. Or knead my fists of earthen wears, or sell my soul completely. I drove off a cliff last night, but the four foot fall ended neatly. The plateau authors my chance to sew my bright, beyond- my fortunes. But the hour before I fall asleep, seems to be the greatest torture.

— The End —