Freshly Picked Sorrow
A Poem
Strictly stabbed into the earth, my feet are stuck.
I feel as if I’ve lost my synchrony with the world and I can’t get back
On the same rhythm without losing who I’ve become.
I’m like a flower, unwillingly planted onto another land.
The roots grow stronger and I cannot pull them up without killing
Parts of me. I have a strong core but a fragile exterior and it terrifies me
That I might have to live with the pain of letting my leaves go.
My clockwise petals seem to be moving in another direction.
I’m dizzy. The thoughts and the words are in a loud arguing and I’m bothered,
Like my own neighbour, living in the constrict apartment between
The mind and the mouth.
They shout and I only observe through blurred windows.
I’m only sightseeing. A tourist following the daily life of the ordinary.
Then I open my eyes, one day, and the light burns the film.
I can’t recall a thing.
My kernel seems to be down on my knees. They tremble but I hold up.
I might not be able to breathe but I’m standing, I’m pretty to glance.
I conceal my delay and for everybody else I’m a sunflower,
Spinning with congruence and desire.
They do not notice how my colour seems tired, how I’m much more thorns
Than I am a flower.
I’m not a fancy Rose on a bouquet. Not an exotic Tulip from abroad.
Nor do I own the mathematical accuracy of a Camellia.
I possess the angriness of a Carnation.
The mortuary robe of a Chrysanthemum.
Flowers that carry longing in their names,
Flowers you count distances with.
Flowers you selfishly torn apart to discover if someone loves you.
And my spread remainings bloom into requests…
Forget-me-not
Forget-me-not
Forget-me-not
- This is a response to the Imagà Imaginings prompt by Kathy Jacobs:
Special thanks to Zev.
