Because I love you, Flower Child

Bed of thorns, vacant flowerbeds,

Flowers plucked and torn, your loyalties shed.

Flower crown of spikes, flower crown of thorns,

Wicked wicker-weaved words swarm. 


I'm selling secrets a dozen a bundle


Leaves fall, flowers die.

Your crown of thorns, a holy high.


Crown of thorns, harsh against the skin, 

"Because I love you," scratches, digs and festers again. 


A pillow of secrets, your blanket of lies,

deep cuts,

I don't cry.


Once so innocent, this flower child no more.

Red halo, 




A warm welcome sore.


I'm selling crowns a dozen a bundle,

brown flowers wilt.

"I love you," you say.

But with your words you fumble.


Sharp Bouquets spark a blaze,

The flower child ignites,

can't meet her gaze.


Because I love me, we shouldn’t be a chore.

Roses are for love not for “sorry,”

At least not anymore.

This poem is about: 
Our world
Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 


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