Sucky Poetry

roses

The roses in the garden are blooming

The roses in the vase have bloomed, and now they're wilting

The roses in the trash are dead and dry

I met a strange person in my garden

They smelt like roses and rain

We talked and laughed, but a new love is what I wanted to gain

I gave them the rose that sat in my window sill, collecting sun

They gave me the most wonderful rose in exchange, and a new love is what I won

This rose was different, it was a bright red and looked so effortlessly pretty, like the small rose pattern on my duvet

I watered it and gave it plenty of sunlight everyday

Some days later the strange person came by again

They held out the rose I gave them, but it was shriveled and almost completely wilted and dry

They left without a word, not even a goodbye

Why did they not take care of the rose?

Maybe they didn't know how

I watered the sad flower and set it next to mine

They looked so different, like life and death or matt and shine

No matter how much I watered the betrayed rose or gave it sunlight

it still wilted and shedded a dry petal, everyday and everynight

I noticed that my rose started leaning towards the dead one and lifted it

It started to die with it, and I couldn't fix it

Everyday, more and more brown pedals rested on my window sill

Everyday until they were both nothing but dirt in a pot

I didn't want to throw my dead roses away, they meant something to me
The two roses I thought I could forever tend

But, I guess all roses have to die in the end

I cared for mine because they gave it to me

so it was special, and I thought they would do the same

But theirs,

It looked like they didn't want the rose

Or just forgot about it

Is that why my orchids didn't grow?

Because they weren't special to me?

Was I too focused on my roses?

Did I see my strange person as a rose?

Does this mean they thought I was a dead one?

Maybe I'm overthinking

the dead flowers laid in my trash

The strange person never returned

It seems like they aren't very good at supporting things

like the vase, where the roses that are starting to wilt lye

And the trash where the shriveled pedals sink

but in my garden bushes, the bright roses stayed the same

they never died, and never fall off

I gave one away and now the bush is without a single rose and I feel ashamed

Sad, and starting to wilt

It only takes one strange person in your garden to make your flowers tilt

and now I sit in my empty house

no roses to give to someone special, and no special person

Not even an orchid to spare

Maybe it's for the better

But the smell of dead roses reminds me of them walking into my garden once again.

(Ok side note, I know this is pretty shitty poetry and isn't even poetry, but it's the only thing that's distracting me from my crippling back pain and trauma, so)