The Feeling of a Flower

The Feeling of a Flower

My petals blow with the breeze.

Lovers pick at me to see if feelings are reciprocated.

A thorn on my side to represent the pain that comes with beauty.

When I am pulled from my roots, I begin to slowly die.

Thirsting for sunlight,

dull without hydration.

But now I can be held in just the way you desire.

And I’m placed in a vase so you can sit and stare.

My slow death is an elegant spectacle.

Here I die,

one piece of me at a time.

I’m just a decoration for which you do not care.

A lullaby for the eyes,

a way to say “I love you.”

Why do I stand so stagnantly?

I cannot scream without a mouth.

I cannot cry without eyes.

I cannot run with just a stem.

Would I be of more use if I had a body and mind?

Or would I then be too special?

I am an exquisite outcast.

Isolated for simply being.

A flower that should have never risen.

Here I spend my last days in a glass casket.

Hope you enjoy the view.