will my roots wither if I pull away?

this, incessant self-querying,
the heart pain tug that tugs on a
clockwork-random schedule,
should I pull it up by the roots,
that, the deepest cut of all.

when you obsess, perplexed about responsibility,
about escape, from what you’ve planted,
which came up with thorns unexpected.

the sweat, from the care and feeding,
rankles and saddens, for this
investments sour taste makes you question
your common-sensical nonsensical,

that intersection where the heart and the brain clash fearsome.

this is oft, too oft, how life sinks it teeth
into you, and extracting those thorns,
leaving teeth marks
hurting long long time after
those withered roots get tugged, pulled,

like a pain in the heart that was exorcised,
but couldn’t never be fully excised


9/12/19

hello and goodbye, little flower
the wallops of the sun and moon
the taste of sweet and sour,
why are you fading so soon?

energy never lies
each day, each petal dies
roots that are used to be cherished
zest is slowly beginning to perish

disappearing charisma burst
embosomed by a gloomier thirst
spirals of flourishing passion
stem's propped to percussion

restoring the seeds of fertility
is the perfect tone of sanity
but the sudden gush of calamities
hindered the ray of prosperity

tailored lullabies,
hoping for rain or a battle cry
here's the dream's doom,
for a flower that no longer blooms

the feeling becomes seasonal
a little bit under the weather,
remember the plant that used to grow?
now's colorless and withered