Flowers

Flowers grow outside my window

Some days they’re purple

Some days they’re blue

And i ask myself why we pick them

If we find them so beautiful.

Maybe we pick flowers when they’re at their loveliest

Because we want everything to stay as is. 

We’ll hide them from the sun

And the change in seasons 

We’re scared of change

And the reason being

That we’re completely unprepared.

So i’ll take this flower 

And i’ll tuck it into the pages of a book i never read

Or a notebook i never use

And maybe while my whole life changes

This flower will  be the one thing preserved

Pressed to these pages 

Like the words I've tried so long to write 

I haven't written a poem in a long time before this one.

I think I didn't let that flower live for the same reason I didn't write

I was scared of what would happen if I did.

Will the flower wilt?

Will its petals fall and become one with the soil as if it had never existed?

Will everyone forget it had existed?

Will they forget about me?

All these weeks

No, months

Ive been tucking my blank pages in tight with my flowers

Neither of them containing any form of life

All because ive been scared of what will happen if I let this ink blot bloom

And end this drought

Scared of what will take root in these pages of mine

So pristine when clean

But god knows what i’ll reap if i speak my mind

I thought

At least whatever happens nothing will happen to these pages

I thought 

For a long time that blank space is more precious than anything I'll ever have to say

But ive come to realize that to ground myself I must touch the soil

Let these pages become soiled with my thoughts tangled up like ivy

And you’ll forgetmenot

Even if everything i say you've heard before 

You will have never heard it fall from my tu-lips

And that’ll be the best day of your goddamn life

Because these words have never seen the light of day quite like this

Maybe flowers only become brighter when they come too close to the sun

They sprout yellow petals so maybe then you’ll pay attention

So I’ll let my words do the same

I’ll plant seeds of thought and reap gardens of colorful language

Uncensored spring blossoms that’ll go on to make your nose sniff and mind think for the whole season to come

And I thought

The flower was better off dead when it really could have gone on to give birth to more art

Than could fit in my notebook

And I thought

This voice was better off dead when it really could have gone on to give birth to art like this.

 

This poem is about: 
Me

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