I wish I told the flowers to shut the fuck up.
To stop admiring their own beauty,
To stop talking of how others
Are so infatuated with them
That they want to de-petal their pretty limbs
That I spoke louder with my poetry
As they sung over with their own hymns
That I was too scared to announce
As less godly than my spins
Of tongue
Though I knew who would win
When rhyme came to shove
I should’ve stopped defending them
As they spoke of the bees’ rough
Attempts at love
I wish I never compared my own lack of rushes of blood
For pollinated touch
And that I didn’t convince them of their gold
As they hushed my cries
Of feeling like dust
I wish I never went for my walk around the garden
As spring crushed winter’s brush
And the sprouts became women
With too much lust for stardom
Too caught up in being the dirt’s superior
And letting my bloom become pardoned
I wish I got a chance
To appreciate the flourishing leaves in the trees
The birds flight’s ease, or
Britannia’s tease of summer breeze
I wish I got a chance
To discuss with the flowers
How the weeds aren’t as strong as they used to be
How the roots of thistles perished years ago
How the brambles stopped their growth
Once I put hold to their nutritious flow
But instead,
I got more talk of how they were out to get the roses,
How they were thorn and thorn,
How the undesirables will never stop
Being jealous of nature’s firstborns
I wish I told the flowers to shut the fuck up.
That I told them their glory wasn’t measured
By the other seedlings’ success
That comparing themselves to the shapes of fruit
Or trying to impress the arrogant sun
Would only bring less growth
That choking on grass doesn’t promote ease,
It only brings reasons to seize
Attempt
That contempt at their own patch
Didn’t make anyone else’s smaller
But,
I did. Didn’t I.
I said all of this, I watered, nourished, shone onto them
Wished for taller stems, encouraged them
With all my kindness falling on deaf petals
I left the garden, then
Wandered back to my resting place
Of brick and wood and plastic
Wondered how my fantastic news
Became forgotten and passive
Remembered the flower’s response was automatic;
Their beauty isn’t soil-deep
It’s in their fabric
To be shallow,
To think up tactics of graphic magic
To trick observers into placid awe
Even if it dulls my static
They live for the dramatic not the grind
How could they ever know hard work
When they grow from other’s labour?
Other’s aching knees and dirty nails
Other’s compliments and favour?
This will be the last time I pain myself to raise my flowers
The last time I spend hours towering over freshly dug dirt
And spend my powers only to be hurt
I will tell the flowers to shut the fuck up next time I’m on my wanders
I won’t let them squander my beauty any longer
Soon snowfall will arrive and they’ll turn weak from stronger
Then I’ll get my time to shine
And about a year to claw back my honour
By Lyric Deep.
Lyric Deep™ 