Flower
A flower,
A leaf,
A branch on a tree.
A sign of beauty for all there to see.
A flower has thorns
But ones taken for granted.
Sharp as they are,
They have been dulled with time,
With endless rhymes.
Being romanticized.
Beauty is subjective.
Flowers aren’t rare.
I don’t like this nickname.
But nobody cares.
I don’t want to be a flower.
I don’t want to be another rhyme.
Because I rhyme myself all the damn time.
Flowers aren’t subjective.
They’re a fact,
Right as rain.
But looks are subjective,
And color,
And name.
I don’t want to be just another branch on a tree.
Poised as a painting for all there to see.
Flowers are pretty.
Flowers are sure.
Flowers are perfect.
I at least thought they were.
Flowers are perfect.
So, I guess, am I
Although who really cares?
When all they need is your eye?
