Little sapling growing between a rock and a hard place.
Weathering what life is surrounding you. No friends of yet
but you are only a sapling give it time. Moments passing
watching scenery elope to shifting seasons beauties.

Sea air invigorating as rain trickled from above dancing on
your now maturing leaves, tickling as each one weaved its
way down, like teardrops they descended on there journey
of life carrying on.

The Cliffside sighs, and teardrops of rocks descend,
woeful of those this motion that swept away, beauty
that clung silently there. The sapling is of branches
and leaves giving needed shelter to tired wings.

Seasons whisper by as the sun and moon dance above
her gaze. Roots delicately weave deeply into the Cliffside
keeping here steady, for if it were to sigh again her fate
steadfast in this place between a rock and a hard place.

Her leaves happened upon a blossom, so delicate in
its serenade of colour against the harsh rock face.
Like a parent when winds were bleak shielding its
frailty with branch and leaves, it only lost a petal this time.

She flowered in the seasons, blossom invigorated the
surroundings of what was bleak, like teardrops of love
for a time they painted vivid etchings on the Cliffside
till they faded nourishing those of lesser stature.

As she yawned on the morning rising above the
horizon, she felt motions upon her leaves.
Never in her time had she felt such gentle touches,
as palms glided over her foliage.

Feeling the breeze from up high, the cliffs edge she
had flourished in growth, now little eyes saw her
in full blossom as the seasons had changed.
Laughter ensued when gusts eloped with blossom.

Pink and light shades of magenta danced between
children, a fence keeping wondering thoughts safe
from the fallen dreams at the bottom of the Cliffside.
Leaves caressed the winds and she was content.

To turn fifty shades of pink and red was too mainstream, so the skies turned blue with a single glance from you. Breathing a heavy sigh, she prayed for it all to be thine.

Too bad
Saint Valentine didn't weep
on the grave
you left in
heaven;

as you were
plucked
from the thousand poppies
of little lost girls
dressed in blue,
white, and
yellow.

and
even now, i know:
(that) you're not from here,
crying pink balloons
and little white
strings-

still attached to your eyes,
they
float right back up
and pop, when
they hit they sky,

and maybe,
maybe
it shows,
you just weren't built for
flying.

for me,
everything is blue
my hair
my clothes
my shoes
my skies
my tears
my dreams
my heart

but she's pink
my feelings are pink

I remember my last love letter to you and how I apologized for being more ocean than girl, more suffocating than soft. I remember promising my reflection that I'd stop my heart from overflowing and I'd try to loosen my grip on you. I remember waking up the next morning and finding my heart on the front porch - beating and bleeding. Nothing too sentimental attached - just a plain old 'sorry' as if you had only bumped me by accident or forgotten to reply to a text. I remember trying to shove it back through your mailbox and your shaking head standing at the window. I remember waking up to everything smeared and hazy for two weeks straight I never knew morning from afternoon.  faded rose that used to be bright scarlet. I remember being pink for a while. It took me months to wash your stains from my walls but soon I was stark and white. Naked and empty. But at least you were gone. I remember swearing to never look at red again. Let alone touch it. But it's knocking at my door every morning and banging on the windows all night long. I try to ignore her singing but sometimes I crouch at the keyhole and hum along. Sometimes I stand clutching the key in my prettiest dress.

Last night I grew too curious. Opened the door just a crack. I saw love crimson and crying in my garden corner surrounded by empty bottles and cigarette buds.

I saw you drunk and tired

We gave up at the same time

All I see is up
The pink flower stretches to forever at the sky
I stare wishing to be among the clouds
Its anterior filters the sun’s warmth upon my soft arms
I sit upon the dark, sodden, summer earth
I am all to myself. Alone.
At home under their stems
So benign am I encased by the pink flower

The pink flower trembles under slight hand of a summer breeze
Honeyed are its petals,
But dangerous is its center
Pricking my delicate fingers
If I am not careful
Yet I watch a dragonfly land on it with grace           
Fragile insect legs grip tightly at the miniature pointed peaks

Wind caresses wisps of hair around my petite face
I am like a fairy
Not knowing the wonders of the world
Only the kingdom of the pink flower
Moisture sweetens the air
Drenching it with the breath of nature
Almost as if a mother is breathing comfort into my small body