Mother: Fucker/Nature

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


That contempt at their own patch 

Didn’t make anyone else’s smaller


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.

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