Rockie Dec 2014

Rose Petals
     Pretty and red
          Wilting and scattered
         Rose Petals
      Pretty and bleeding
Rose Petals
  See the Rose Petals
         Falling and silky
      Rose petals
   Both Dead
And Dying

Jade Massey Dec 2014

Rose so red,
Made of blood.
Petals droop
As one falls,
Never again to rise.
Once Fallen,
Glory vanishes.
Hearts break
As tears fall.
Crimson flows
The blood
As those whom
Fall as well.

of this wilting wall the colour drub
souring sunbeams,of a foetal fragrance
to rickety unclosed blinds inslants
peregrinate,a cigar-stub
disintegrates,above,underdrawers club
the faintly sweating air with pinkness,
one pale dog behind a slopcaked shrub
painstakingly utters a slippery mess,
a star sleepily,feebly,scratches the sore
of morning.  But i am interested more
intricately in the delicate scorn
with which in a putrid window every day
almost leans a lady whose still-born
smile involves the comedy of decay,

R Apr 2013

Let me tell you a story about a busy steet in a busy city in a busy country in a busy world.

Somewhere near the end of this busy street in a busy city in a busy country in a busy world, there was a flowershop.

It was a lovely old place; an elegant building surrounded by beautiful gardens with daisies and daffodils and roses. It had bird baths where the cheery cardinals and bluejays stopped by for an afternoon splash, and even a sprinkler for the young children to run around in while their mommy's and daddy's were picking out pretty flowers.

Now, inside this flowershop, there were rows upon rows of pots filled with any type of plant you could imagine: dragonsnaps, lilies, zinnias, tulips, the whole lot. Baskets of flowers hung from the ceiling, overflowing with bright colours. Every once in a while, petals would rain down and the entire shop would look magical.

Everyday, people of all ages would dash into this flowershop. Men in suits, looking to find the perfect gift for their dates. Ladies in dresses, picking out just a little something to look nice in a vase on their dinner table. And of course, the gardeners, with their overalls and dirty fingers.

So, as I said, busy people on a busy street in a busy city in a busy country in a busy world would dash into this busy flowershop, then dash back out and get on with their busy lives. Always looking for the most ravishing type of flower, the ones that could catch your eye as soon as you entered the shop. Never focusing on anything else.

What no one realized was that there was a small flower placed near the back wall of the shop. It was never moved; always been in the same exact place ever since it arrived at the flowershop years and years ago. The owners had stopped watering it, so the flower was beginning to shrivel up. Most of the petals had fallen off and were now laying in a sad little pile on the ground, and the few that remained had turned the colour of black.

The little flower got sicker and sicker every day, but it never lost hope. Every time the suited man stopped in, or the lady with the dress, or the dirty gardener; the flower would use its last bit of strength to make itself noticed. It stood on its tippy toes, perking up and spreading its wilted petals and frail stem as much as it could.

No one saw.

Then, one day, when the owner was sweeping the floor of the flowershop, he saw something near the back wall. Something broken. Crumpled. Blackened. Ugly. Dead. Something that once was beautiful until it stopped being noticed; stopped being loved.

You see, in a busy flowershop on a busy street in a busy city in a busy country in a busy world, no one's ever going to notice a wallflower until it wilts.

Yes, I'm aware that this isn't a poem.
Otis May 2013

so damn innocent
and I took it all away

I spoke to her like a jazz band
and her to me like dorothy to kansas
I colored her into the psychotic and depraved shades
the portions of the picture that you don't bother to look at

I wilted the flower

Just so damn innocent

Crystal June May 2015

I'm like a wilting daisy, too tragically beautiful for anyone to pick.

flower bud Oct 2015

Among all of the things you loved,
She was the one you ruined the most.

You called her flower bud,
But she withered with you
Until all she is now
Is a wilting  excuse for beauty.

She held the weight of the world
In her shoulders for you,
And you had the guts to pick her
Among the dandelions in the field.

She spoke the most gentle words,
She held the colors of the world,
But you chose to rip her away from her home
And keep her inside walls.

Withering, withering
Wilting until everything burns
Plump to soft is all that she is
And love, this is how you let her down

This is a cycle, and endless one
Of picking, keeping, cherishing, and wilting
But among all of the things you loved,
She was the one you ruined the most.

Amanda Jerry Jul 2013

I can feel my hopelessness in my legs
They’re all sort of settled, sinking into the bed like logs into soft loam
burrowed into by all manner of insects,
hardening their tongues into little tubes and sucking out my flesh with a mighty slurp.
I have found that I exist in a perpetual sigh
apart from every once in a while, when I pause to eat and sleep and watch a car go by with one headlight out at 12:53 in the morning.
I whisper a heathen's prayer that this gross longing exists somewhere outside of myself. I have to find a wall far away and break it down. I don’t want to get trapped under my own rubble anymore. Better to be drowned than crushed.

Enygma Jul 2015

There is
Worth dying for
It's to go back in time
On that fateful Thursday
The day we went up that hill
Me and you on top of the world
All our problems were right below us
Nothing could stop us, nothing could go wrong
When  I  felt,  for  once,  a  bit  of  forever
Now every time I see you, my heart aches
You walk past me like I don't exist
Like nothing's happened, nothing's changed
All my efforts, blown away
I would go back in time
To undo the things
Undo the pain
To unlove

Katherine Odell Nov 2014

Squeaky, creaky rocking chair
Grandma shyly shaking there
Wears a bun of silver hair

Knits a patterned dress to wear
Faded flowers everywhere
Wither 'way and thither there

A different and disconnected poem of mine. You might not get it the first time.
Aditi Jul 2015

Hold me
Like I'm the most fragile thing
You have touched
One breath
And I'll shatter
And I'm all
That is keeping you alive

Hold me
As if
The whole world has turned into a dark, cold ball
And I'm the only lamp light
You must save from the breeze

Hold me as if
You are the  hurricane
Leaving a path of wreckage behind
And I'm the only thing
You intended to keep
In one-piece

Hold me as if
Stars are oozing out of me
From where I should be bleeding
And you try to find the exit hole
But you get fascinated by my stars instead
And you stand there
Perplexed and mesmerized equally

He held me,
As if I was the last flower blooming
In his garden
Salty and hence, infertile
From the tears all the other wilting flowers had cried

Stephanie Grice May 2015

I need someone to talk to, someone to hear.
I feel alone in the world, no one is near.
Don’t let me confuse you, a body is here.
A person, a being of such; if you must say.
Not really a person to communicate.
Although we are here, we are not really there.
Two different people, two different worlds, lives lived together yet so far apart.
Sadness pours over me to see such a beautiful love start to wilt.

Sydney Victoria Aug 2013

The Pearl Pink Petals Of My Heart Are Wilting,
Their Silk Like Skin Is Turing Rough And Rugged,
Recoiling They Abate Under Your Frostbitten Chops,
I've Wished For So  Long That Your Flush Pink Lips,
Would Tenderly Kiss This Flower Called, A Soul,
I Handed You This Treasure, Warning  You, Softly
That It Was A Million Pieces Just A Short While Ago

But As You Held The Semi-Broken Artifact I Saw,
That Indeed You Had Thrown Caution To The Wind,
That Your Hands Were No Longer A Nest, But A Cage,
You're Eyes Were No Longer Hazel, But Gray,
And The Way You Whisper Goodnight Was Not A
Joy, But A Hate, For I Knew I'd Be Serving You For Another Day...

Just Jumbled Thoughts, It's Not Much Of Poem.. Forgive Me, For I Have Been Saddened
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