Written 5/1/16
Hundreds of miles away from my true home
in a place I should call "home"
but don't
I work, and worry,
then stop working
to take a moment to pick flowers.
A yellow one
for the sun that surrounds
my beloved as she sits up high
among a million branches,
And a purple one
for the dark clouds that have come
to block the sun from her sight.
I stopped and almost stole a rose
for the way my lovely's thirst
to see her own blood
has stolen my smile
And more importantly, hers, too.
I did not take the rose, though.
For what use is it
to rip beautiful things from the Earth
and give them to an even more beautiful girl
if such efforts don't even help?
I am no expert in helping people.
I have the heart for it, perhaps,
just not the ideas.
I would pick every last damned flower
on this planet if it would help her,
but I fear it would not.
So I shall explore other options to help,
and hope the blood clots in time to reach her.
v.e.s.
YOU ARE READING
Cardboard Lungs
Poetry"Demons floating in my morning cereal." "Ink isn't the only thing bleeding tonight." A collection of my poetry. *I do not promote self harm or any other negative coping skills. My poetry is my outlet for preventing those actions in my own life, so I...
