#morethandryflowers
Several books sat on the bookshelf
Yet you picked one.
Why?
What made you pick it?
Why didn’t you pick the one beside it?
Why must it be this one?
Why must it be me?
I sat quietly like the books
In the shelf,
My cover was hidden from you.
Yet you stretched your hands and picked me?
Did you find anything special in me?
But those other books beside me were also special,
You should have tried them out.
But you refused,
You wanted me.
At least That’s what you said.
You took me home, and make me yours.
Read me every single days,
Till I become part of you.
But then you don’t read one book forever,
You pick another when you get tried.
You got tried of me.
And returned me to the shelf you found me,
And went for the next book after me.
The same book I had asked you to choose
Instead of me.
What was so special about me?
What made you pick me first?
I was getting used to your laps
Only for you to bring me back to
The dusty shelf.
To pick another.
Nov 19, 2025
Nov 19, 2025 at 3:15 PM UTC
I picked dry flowers as my favorite thing
And they called me weird.
I bet they don’t know what’s weird.
Lying to everyone about being okay
when a day has never passed
without me emptying all the water from the sea that lay beneath me.
This is weird.
Gathering all what they see as less valuable
just to comfort myself
that maybe someone will come to me
even though I might be nothing but an empty vessel.
But just as I gathered dry flowers
and loved them,
They might take me
and love me.
I guess this is what is weird
‘Comparing myself with dry flowers, wishing I could be more than dry flowers.’
Nov 19, 2025
Nov 19, 2025 at 2:37 PM UTC
The rain knows how to play the exact music I need.
If not, tell me why it’s raining the same time
my eyes is raining.
Tell me why the sky is forming
When my tears are forming
Tell me why they leave
The same time I need them the most.
Tell me why I hate myself so much
When all I need is love,
Excess love, when I don’t even have little.
…More than dry flowers
Nov 19, 2025
Nov 19, 2025 at 2:18 PM UTC