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A 3d
I wish plants could speak
They’d tell me of  horrid things they’d seen
Above them and next to them
Left and right
They’d speak of the rain that came after drought
And the joy they would have at that
They’d tell me about the loss when a flower got picked
and the fuss of it if anyone cared enough to get it fixed
for a new plant in its place
a new life replacing the old
a decade of silver instead of gold
With new existential questions (some are very bold)
would the sky get angry then and start raining coal?
for how dare a simple plant question the mighty clouds?
and have a voice to speak and make sounds?
while it is inferior, sickle, stuck in the same old grounds,
as it’s quiet predecessors

I wish plants could speak
they’d be full of wisdom I’d reckon
They’d be melancholy
they’d seldom speak
and sometimes,
Of hope a beacon

you’d think they might know the most of this earth
as their roots are intertwined with it
I’d say It unravels it’s secrets to them
For it knows for sure
That plants never speak.
wrote this without re reading it. Sorry if it’s *******
The autumn winds ***** her mercilessly,
as idle hands lunge for delicate petticoats.
Their ugly, pockmarked howls pinch her deeply
with each new limb they expose,
until her tears drop like leaves, unheard
and become soiled.

By the winter, she’s left leaning awkwardly
like a slapper against a lamp post.
Her body but scattered, bent baguettes,
freeze-set with the frigid, nightly chills,
which preserve her stark immodesty
and her malign revenge.

Yet spring adorns her with tentative protruding buds,
glazed like freshly shellacked fingernails,
as her body itches with the swellings of youth
and foliage fastens frills around her chest,
summoning the dewy-peach lustre of virginity.
Now she basks in our wanton, forgiving glares.

As the summer teases, she writhes ******-like
in a raincoat that clings to her, just so.
Her barely concealed fruits spilling out,
as the sun caresses her skin hotly, until she ****
with that cacophony of lilac bells gawping, grape-like,
ringing out the sweet moans of her petite-mort.
Beulin S S Oct 4
I am sensitive;

If you hurt me,

I'll shrink...

If you hurt me;

I'll shrink...

But I'll grow!

I'm sensitive;

My growth will hurt you...

I've my thorns.

I'll shrink;

I'll never stop growing;

I'm a plant  "touch me not"!
It's about life or plant..
Iska Sep 19
Meanwhile I’ve just sat by and wrote poems about her passion pretending it was my own. Little did I know, a seed was planted and she was watering it as it grew into a dream I never knew that I had buried.
Molly Sea Aug 21
In the long, dark times before the start
I waited in the moonflower garden.
The vines grew strong, with pointed leaves
Toxic nightshade, witches w**d

I took them and wound them around my body,
Tight like linen cloth,
Paralysis. My bound eyes saw
Petals unfurl like napkins, new moon
Glowing ghostly white
Too pale to exist in daylight but

In the stillness of surrender,
Where I could not speak, nor move, I saw
Nightmares bloom as wisdom
Last night I came across moonflowers by chance. Struck by the name, I went down a rabbit hole of reading about how its flowers open at night so fast you can watch, about its mythology of blooming from the chest of Shiva after he ate poison, and about its use by indigenous peoples as a medicinal and visionary plant, as well as reading people’s crazy reports of symptoms while under its psychedelic influence. This poem was the result.

It cast a shadow
Long and short
Sometimes stout
No it didn’t fall prey to none
It was the sun
As it shone its rays
On the cup
That stayed too long
Soaking, drying
The paints and coats
Layers over layers
The colours
In the cup
Now green
The money plant
Sun and shade and the shadows
spill your chlorophyll
into my veins

teach me how to live
off only what is given
by the sun
and the rain

show me how to open
each stoma
and surrender
to that vital
gas exchange

I will produce my nectar
I will attract the bees
feel the wind
shuffle my leaves
my seeds carried away
on the wash of a breeze

I will be happy
only if I can bloom
in the very soil
that holds your roots
Maybe I was meant to live out my days as a tree
my dear pretty starling
you'll hold my fragile attention
for no more than perhaps a season

but i'll still sit under your acacia branch
collecting iridescent feathers
as i listen to you beckon away the sun

and my dear pretty starling
soon you'll migrate to warmer evergreen
so i wish your wispy heart farewell

for mine has rotted off like bad fruit
but i'll still tuck away the seeds
for your curious beak to plant elsewhere.
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