Sometimes I feel like petals pressed
and adorned on pages to be admired
Except I have nothing to show
but my wilted and rotting image
I long to feel the pain of a
beheaded dandelion
To have my guts strewn out
for the sun to dry and decay
My roots are starting to reveal themselves
and I can't sit through another sunset.
YOU ARE READING
A Meaningless Collection
PoetryA collection of variously themed poems that I write mostly on my commute to class or when I can't find a reason to fall asleep.
