Flowers

There were wonderful flowers in my room.

Vibrant,

Fragrant,

Lovely.

The people around me are like flowers too.

They grow upwards from the ground,

Reaching towards the sky,

Facing towards the sun,

Unknowingly beautiful.

But I am a flower that has been picked.

Stuck in a vase to be displayed,

Except instead of water the vase has been filled

with poison.

The sun does not reach my vase.

I am expected to continue growing,

Except now I am no longer reaching upwards for myself,

In fact there is no longer anywhere I can go,

So I regress,

and begin to droop.

I was plucked for the enjoyment of others,

and now I am dying.

While the outside has yet to fade inside I am slowly absorbing

the poison I have been forced to endure.

I am simply a shell of what I could have been.

Others do not understand.

They are unnoticing from their sunlit gardens,

With no indication of something

deferred from their bright dreams.

I watch from the dark,

Wilted,

In Pain,

Alone.

The flowers in my room have died.

I have yet to replace them.