The rise and the fall
Of the rose petals in a storm
Left to defend with only thorns
And already more than halfway gone

The scent carries on the wind
Of this Rose, I'm guardian
Guarding what is left
Of a beauty left in the past...

Because although they say true beauty never dies
A rose wasn't built to last

We diffuse ink into our bodies with needles, withstanding the pain, waiting patiently through the healing process of aching, scabbing and itching. We anticipate it, and marvel at its beauty upon healing. We call this an expression; body art. Then why don’t we treat scars and aches the same? Why should we hide those away as if it were something to be ashamed of? Let me stand beaming, strong and proud of my scars

I am not a carefully prepared bouquet of flowers
arranged to please anyone
to create comfort
I am the raw uncomfortable, that they want to pretend doesn't exist.
I am a bowl of wild flowers

I am the moon,
no perception or projection of shine or shadow
can change me,
discern me or not, it does not change that I am full no matter.

My moonlight knight, was just an intangible, empty  projection.
Thats the thing about poets, their words drip of rich nectar, but it only alludes the sweetness of honey

She is sadness
Lost in the depths of her imagination
She appears bright and vibrant to everyone she meets
A soul so pure there is no way she can be incomplete
But only she knows
She is sadness