is there something so mature,
so unique about this blossoming flower
that she attracts so many buzzing bees
and social butterflies?
is she really so lovely?
if so,
then why is she so lonely?
why do the bees simply use her?
why do the butterflies not stay longer?
is she really so lonely?
do those bees use her?
or do they rely on her?
do those butterflies flutter about their own business
or do they whisper words of care?
if this beauty is simply skin deep,
then is she really just a weed?
Labels: friends, love, poetry
And sometimes I buy things just for the hell of it,
just to give them a life in the closet
or shoved in the corner,
because we all know that one day shit will happen,
and they'll be rediscovered.
And when that day comes
they'll be hailed as spontaneous saviours,
the best things that happened that day
and certainly that week.
And then I'll wear them too much,
wear and tear and tear and wear
until they're thrown back into that dark little corner,
too old to be taken seriously,
too thin to trust in the coming months.
And then,
one day,
I'll find them again...
Labels: prose, trends
