Femalefullmetal97
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- Posted: Mon, 14 Apr 2014 23:31:57 +0000
A metaphorical garden of sorts and other ramblings
If you were a flower, you would be a rose, red and bright and full of passion and caring for others, plagued by the thorns of your ways to which you think you do not fit and people who do not fit you.
However, if I were a flower, I would be dandelion. Maybe mildly pretty but still a weed. People pull me from their gardens and mow me from their lawns and rip my stem to shreds because I am not one of dire importance. I am not one of beauty.
But this dandelion could write about that rose forever.
I could write about how the hair falls against your forehead, a stark contrast against the fair skin that is lighter than mine, a very rare feat.
I could write about your hands, about how warm they are, and how your fingers fit so effortlessly against mine, almost like a jigsaw puzzle being perfectly solved.
I could write about how the light dances wildly in your eyes when you're excited.
And we always come back to your eyes.
These are the ones I see in my dreams and on most weekend mornings wake up to, before you roll over to lay on me.
But there is so much more I want to write about. To talk about all of the time. You are kind. You are caring. You are loving to your cats. You understand where. I come from and who I am and you don't take this dandelion and tear me apart for that. Your good qualities outshine the bad by more than a mile, and this is why I write these poems.
They are for you, and about you, but maybe they are also for me. Because you are not mine, and I am not entitled to write such poems for you, and maybe I never will be. But these are all for you. And I am all for you, and though you are not mine and will probably never will be, the thorns will never matter because the rose will always be my favorite part.
If you were a flower, you would be a rose, red and bright and full of passion and caring for others, plagued by the thorns of your ways to which you think you do not fit and people who do not fit you.
However, if I were a flower, I would be dandelion. Maybe mildly pretty but still a weed. People pull me from their gardens and mow me from their lawns and rip my stem to shreds because I am not one of dire importance. I am not one of beauty.
But this dandelion could write about that rose forever.
I could write about how the hair falls against your forehead, a stark contrast against the fair skin that is lighter than mine, a very rare feat.
I could write about your hands, about how warm they are, and how your fingers fit so effortlessly against mine, almost like a jigsaw puzzle being perfectly solved.
I could write about how the light dances wildly in your eyes when you're excited.
And we always come back to your eyes.
These are the ones I see in my dreams and on most weekend mornings wake up to, before you roll over to lay on me.
But there is so much more I want to write about. To talk about all of the time. You are kind. You are caring. You are loving to your cats. You understand where. I come from and who I am and you don't take this dandelion and tear me apart for that. Your good qualities outshine the bad by more than a mile, and this is why I write these poems.
They are for you, and about you, but maybe they are also for me. Because you are not mine, and I am not entitled to write such poems for you, and maybe I never will be. But these are all for you. And I am all for you, and though you are not mine and will probably never will be, the thorns will never matter because the rose will always be my favorite part.
