I am deliberately miserable.
I've exhausted my options to which the point my sickness is physical
I am overwhelming. I am much.
I flinch in fear over a gentle touch.
Even if I were kissed by angels- somehow in the back of my mind, there's a lingering twinge of sadness.
As if the kiss would not to be to comfort but to taunt.
Dangling happiness above and out of reach, whispering "You'll never have this."
And the voices, they haunt.
I've watched flowers grow to weeds and soil suffer from souls selfish decisions.
I've used the last of my seeds and prayed for bountiful growth with such precision.
The weather didn't oblige and I was forced to confide in trees.
I begged for their forgiveness for tarnishing their foundation for my own needs.
It's time to uproot the poison and isolate it's trimmings.
For the trees grow away
And the flowers withered and smells of decay
How could I tarnish a garden? That must be a form of sinning.
And perhaps some flowers leave petals behind after they've gone
And return in a new season, in hopes of fertile ground to be implanted upon
I mean inside.
Budding and spoiling.
Truly, it's own demise.
So I apologize to the tedious, for their patience and all of their hard work.
To return back to their creation and all they see are shrubs and infertile dirt.
And all that's left is one: with thorns dipped in nightshades essence.
Deadly to the touch, but with the presence of a flower: rose.
Let a passing season be your lesson
Because winter cloaked in summertime sunlight is the reason Life refuses to grow