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Katie Jan 5
The orchid is dead.

The “just because” orchid you bought me when things first started to feel rocky
is dead.

That delicate, fragile thing.

It’s hard to say what really killed it.
It wasn’t doing well from the beginning.
Perhaps it came to me a little broken.
Perhaps it had some fatal flaw that meant it would’ve died no matter what I did.

But overwatering it certainly didn’t help.

I think I might be stuck wondering for a while,
did I **** something beautiful or did you just present me with a dying flower?

Either way,
it’s dead.

I threw it away today.
I once was told
In Broooklyn New York
I had a lackadaisical attitude.
It was the first time I was hearing
That whimsical adjective !
So lackadaisical I was !
Looked like an illness
The way they said it
It seemed I could contaminate.
So I stopped a few seconds to think  and dissect the word
I lacked a daisy somewhere !
Sounded like I lacked a fuse in my brain !
Next thing I know I was checking the word
In my reminiscences of the Oxford English Dictionary
Or may be it was Webster's
And  it said in black and white ferns I lacked purpose
I wasn't properly lazy, I just lacked directions
I lacked enthusiasm, stamina
I was devoid of zest
I was blasé
Translated into  more French I was nonchalant and better said
It was during an encounter group
And they threw that lackadaisical attitude ******* to my face
And guess what i did ?!
I just kept on smiling
Jemenfoutiste to the extreme.
And they kept saying
See what I mean, you 're so ******* lackadaisical , man !
You're so pathetic !  You're so apathetic !
It was Winter in America like Gil Scott-Heron would say
And it felt so good, so warm,
As far as I could see,
To be called lackadaisical
And not laconical.
I not only lacked a daisy
I lacked a bunch of tropical flowers indeed !
Like bouganvillea, orchid or hibiscus
Anthurium, jasmine or bromeliad
I lacked sun and sea
Strange as it was
Even though I was near Atlantic Avenue, Coney Island
So I was lackaseacal and lackasuncal
But what I didn't lack was ants in my pants
And until today they make me dance
My forever lackadaisical dance.
Ylzm May 2019
alien and other worldly.

bordering the grotesque and bizarre,
strangely exhilarating.

wild and uninhibited,
even orgiastic,
of a mind, as if,
not of this world;
shapes and sizes,
folds and spirals
colours and colourations.

at times,
more animal or insect,
than flower.

if a rose is Mozart,
an orchid, Stravinsky.
K Balachandran Aug 2018
Lilac emits her scent,
Orchid’s winks bring elation;
Love speaks through us all!
abby Jun 2018

ʟɨɛ աɨȶɦ ʍɛ օռ ǟ ʄʟօաɛʀ ֆɦօʀɛ
աǟʟӄ աɨȶɦ ʍɛ ȶɦʀօʊɢɦ ȶɦɛ ֆɛƈʀɛȶ ɖօօʀ
ƈɦǟʍքǟɢռɛ ʀօֆɛֆ, օʀƈɦɨɖֆ ȶօօ
ȶɦɨֆ ֆɦɨռɨռɢ ɖǟʀӄռɛֆֆ, ɨ ֆɛɛ ɨռ ʏօʊ
ȶɦɨֆ ɨֆ ȶɦɛ քʟǟƈɛ ȶօ ɮɛ
օռ ȶɦɛ ʄʟօաɛʀ ֆɦօʀɛ աɨȶɦ ʍɛ


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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