take a gift, friend,
these violets, plucked
from your mother's
scatter your memories,
purple petals, borrowed
from the fields behind
the train tracks
breathe the air again,
amethyst heirlooms, stolen
from heaven's front
take a gift, friend,
these violets, so that
you may remember
- I am by your side forever -
the train tracks,
I will not leave you behind
the act of picking flowers
I love you so much that I killed a living being and presented you with it's corpse.
It's a beautiful little bloody thing that you'd appreciate
of course, I thought of you when I committed murder
there's no better way to express my fervor toward you.
This plant-based passion delights all your senses
bright red pedals, so delicately scented,
wrapped around a thorny stem and set inside my hand,
and when I look into your eyes you know that everything expires.
Everything except the love that I feel for you,
which extends its existence by feeding off the death of lower things,
including other interests I may have, and both our bodies.
had a little argument with my lover about flowers yesterday.
he argued they were impractical. useless, one could say.
i said they were pretty. they don't have any logical purpose, but they look nice for a moment, and i adore giving them to you. they're purpose is to look nice, to be pretty. and if we considered everything that's primary purpose is to look pretty, useless, that would be an awfully plain life.
and he said that's true, but beauty after functionality.
not sure i agree.
beauty drives me to do the necessary. i'll finish the dishes to go to the beach. if the beach was considered useless, just because it's pretty, and i didn't go purely out of "is it tangibly useful" it would be much harder for me to do the dishes.
i think i'll bring my lover a flower on saturday. just because i can. and maybe it's traditionally "useless", but to hell if that means i'll stop gifting them to him. perhaps a daisy, because those are his favourite. perhaps a purple rose, or a red carnation, or something blue.
A Yellow Rose
I gave him a yellow rose
And he smiled.
He said no one had ever given him a flower before.
I told him it means friendship.
He pulled an arm around me
And told me the same stories I've heard a million times.
I smiled as best I could
As he pulled me down the path
Tucking myself against the cold.
I gave him a yellow rose
But I wanted to give him red.
A room crowded by darkened thought
Gloomy air transversed by sorrow
Grief stricken only one is not
A white window to tomorrow
A beacon on a tragic night
That one has found the next day
Perfumed petals are pure and white
As wings flying the soul away
My friend dances on a stage covered in flower petals;
the Audience’s thanks for Their performance.
Their pointe shoes pick their way through the crowd of red and white roses
finding my soiled orange converse that complements the gray concrete floor.
I meant to give Them flowers today
at least fresh ones
but I had bought them a week before.
Not only do they wilt, but they crumple
curling like the ends of Their auburn hair
dried after sitting in the winter sun.
Without hesitation They snatch the bouquet from my shaking hands.
I blush, mumble, and excuse my inferior appearance
except they don’t care
They are just happy I am here.
I gave her carnations
Every color for all the things
I would never say
this Mother's Day
All the regrets
All the love
All the pain
All the loss
Peach, pale pink rose
for a mother's love
she's never shown me
Purple for the regret
sadness and grief
because she wouldn't
Yellow because under it all
I knew what I could not
say aloud, I wished her
pain as I feel it now
White for the pureness of
love I wish was reality
Red for the passionate love
I'll never be able to give
In the center of the bouquet
A green carnation
symbol of who I am,
of unnatural love, she cannot
accept who I am
who will sniff their spicy scent
and never see the message
a broken heart sent
Duty calls you see
even if I must deny
I am me.
In bittersweet and sage
Give me lilac lullabies, the nostalgia of my youth
Bring me daisy daydreams, for the secrets that I'll keep
Wrap me in blue hyacinth, to know I'll always stay
Crown me in your ivy wreaths, a matching pair we'll make
and even in the moments, that you're giving what I take
I'll cull meaning for myself in bittersweet and sage
Valuing the thought that counts and what they can never say
Smirking beneath his hood, the Grim Reaper arrives,
Beckoning him forward,
Hunger gleaming in his eyes.
He follows every curl of the Reaper's wiry bones
The man who claims to have it all,
Little does he know Mr. Grim here is just here to take back what he owns.
Isn't this what they call the pride before the fall?
When he gets close, the Reaper whispers low:
Dear mortal, where did you think you would go, with all this pomp and show?
Remember my words and repeat them slow
Every night to yourself so that you know:
The more rotten the soul, the sweeter the harvest
For men like you, the night is darkest.
You shall beg for a taste of light but have none
Such will be your plight, you will come undone.
With that Mr. Grim hands him the flowers
And dissipates into the late hours
Of the night.
But this is not all, the man realizes soon enough,
These soft creatures are made of sterner stuff!
The Begonias in pink smile up at him and say:
"Beware! your pride will lead you astray...''
'Enough of this folly!' The man exclaims, and throws the bouquet into the furnace, it goes up in flames.
He thinks its over and collapses in his chair,
With beads of sweat dripping from his hair.
I'm going mad! He thinks to himself in despair
This is it, the end is near.
"Not so quick!" A bellowing laugh resounds.
"This is what you get, o mortal, for crossing all your bounds."
All of a sudden, the embers begin to glow,
It blinds the man momentarily, causing him to groan.
Before he can recover, the fire grows and grows,
The only thing the neighbors hear are the petrel's sorrowful moans.
Took a bit of a dark turn but this is what I came up with, haha. Hope you like it.
I hold the bouquet that is my heart
In my hand. My breath becomes contaminated
With the anxiety that haunts me; I remember
"You're good. You're good. I promise."
Your voice echoes in my head - I don't know why
I always listen to what you say; I don't know why
What you say always works, makes sense.
I relax and give you my heart - I do not love you
Romantically at least. But my trust for you is
As colourful and complex as the bouquet of flowers you now hold,
But unlike the flowers, I hope
It will never wither and die.