My throat swells with emotion,
cutting off my vocal chords.
Like my body has decided to slam the door.
I surrender to my voice's remotion.
I lay down my loquacious swords,
and take a respite from speaking any more.

Listen to the words I don't create with my mouth
they speak to the truth that I hide deep inside.
I talk about setting things right,
but I'd rather lash out in spite.
For someone who craves stability,
I'm too much like the ocean.
Pushing and pulling my self apart.
Daughter of the moon and water
with time I've grown fonder,
of the waves that used to scare my heart.

I used to find comfort with both feet on the ground,
but it seems that people always dig holes underneath me.
So I have the illusion of solid earth,
but I take one step and then the earth quakes.
At least in the water, I expect the lack of stability,
so if I struggle with swimming,
I can sink down into the sea.
The pressure of the water weighs down on me.
I can see the light at the surface
it's so **** pretty.

In a garden filled with flowers
Hundreds.
Thousands.
Patient like impatiens
You lay, lie
Lac of worry.

The Wisteria hands you here
another idea
‘Forget-Me-Not’ it says.
All the while the Orchids
struggle beneath
to compete;
A heartbeat you notice
as carefully and clear
as the Clematis is.

Under the sun-flowers
you nurture the buttercups
Bluebells
maintain the Marigolds
While through the kitchen window
he washes, watches, waves, wearing his Marigolds.

The Evening primrose shows
through the Iris of our eyes
a Lilac sky
leaning on a golden glow
in the lavender scented air
and you remind yourself
This is your Gardenia.

You made it.
Maintained it.
Arranged it.
Sustained it.

For in this garden filled with timeless flowers
you were the gardener.
and now the gardener must go
so that she, herself,
may grow.

I don't like roses.

Their meaning weighs on me too heavily.
The red screams of a passion
that is one-sided,
for I don't believe I can return
such emotions.

I don't like roses.

Maybe I'm just with the wrong person?
And that's why I feel no passion.
I struggle so much to get romantically involved
and it makes me feel broken.
They always give me those **** flowers.

I don't like roses.

I don't know what love is.
Though I know what it's like to care.
These flowers are too focused on the idea of love;
a cliche, cookie-cutter, romantic option,
that seems safe, yet it puts me in a depressive fit.

I don't like roses.

But, I really wish I did.
I really wish I did.