It was late in the spring,
And the flowers had bloomed.
But though the birds did sing,
One thought she'd be doomed.

Afraid of what laid beyond her walls,
She kept closed in a bud, so nobody knew
Of her catastrophic inner-world brawls
Or why her stem and petals never grew.

What if they think I'm too pretty,
And I quickly get picked?
What if I'm planted in a big city,
And my petals are torn up and pricked?

And after so long of nothing but questions,
She'd had enough of that chatty buttercup.
So she took the other flowers' suggestions,
And ever so slowly, she began to open up.

But just as her petals reached for the sky,
A cold wind made her shudder. An early frost
Had snuck into autumn. Yes, autumn, I cry!
And immediately, she became very crossed.

Why did you tell me that I'd see the sun,
And that it would be warm and colorful?
Where did all this cold white powder come from,
And why is the wind so painfully powerful?

But as she panicked she looked around
To find that no other flowers were to be seen.
And with none of them to be found
She wasn't sure what she thought of this scene.

She got angry and decided they were all closed.
Her perception of the outside had been an illusion.
She knew now that she loathed being exposed
And came to her conclusion:

*I will go back to my hiding place,
And never again shall I come back,
Because I so much long to be encased,
Away from this painful and viscous attack.

a tangled mess is
what most would call it,
wrapped in a series
of unblossoming madness.

i was blinded by the fact
that i'm letting these roots grow
that i've forgotten to **** out
the thorns of all my sorrow.