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The BotanistIt's my words that fear rejection when I pluck them from my brain,Like unwanted dandelions, except I depend on these weeds.They fear being blown back into my mouth - through lips that wished them to work.It's my fear that hates command when I tear it off like petals,Forcing an answer similar to, "no, I do not love you."And it hates the choice that says courageous over careful.It's my demands that rely on ideas when I hand you a rose,Then wonder if the thought really counted for anything.Or are the thoughts really just borrowed - passed around like pollination?It's my brain that holds my tongue when I throw away withered flowers,That lived long enough to make someone smile.So when they're dead, them stem is left alive a while longer.
The Reason for LiesYour pointed question pokes at my chest,Pawing for an answer that will bend your lips.I could check my head for a lie that's sure to please youAnd hope that guilt doesn't get me in the end,Since all you really want is my agreement.I know I'd get away, but how far could I runBefore your eyes showed up in my head again?And how long could I live, knowing I made you smileWith a twisted truth so easily forged?"At least I'd make you happy"... I tell myself.Because as long as you stay unaware of this,Nothing I say can ever hurt you.So it's very important that you never find out,For as soon as you question me, all these lies start to burn.
Option #2You're my backup plan if option one fails,My go-to number two when everything tumblesOut of my hands and I can't get a hold on life.You're my escape route that I talk toWhen my highway is not so high anymore,And I often wonder:Am I also your option two?
InsideI have OCD and suffer from cleanliness,But only when in public.I'm a natural slob, but you'd never know it,Because I hide everything under my bed.I'm self conscious of my things.I don't want to be judged for how big my head is,And it bothers me when you call me smart,Perfect, too good, over-achiever, try-hard, good person.I try, but don't succeed in perfection,So stop bombarding me with complimentsThat I have no clue how to answer,Because I'm just as bad as youAnd everyone knows you're not perfect either.I have EHD, excessive heat disorder,But only when it's hot or I need something to talk about.I made that up, to sound unique, interesting,Because people are more concerned withWhat's wrong with me, than what's specialAbout who I am, what I do, what I love.I have feelings, too many I think-Emotions so out of control, I give off whiplash,Even when I'm not cursed with PMS.I cry when I'm happy, when I laughAnd I cry when I'm miserable...sometimes.People say you're t
Who Carries Your WeightMy head bends over my body, andHair sways in front of my faceLike a clock pendulum, back and forth.This hooded head is soakedWith the smell of damp earth;And if I were to sneeze,The wind would close my eyes.***My chest is folded over an empty stomach,Creasing my middle, andStretching shallow skin tighter.Fragile hands retreat into their pockets,Nails dig into palms, balling into fists.The pavement is pumiceTo my exposed heels, a rip in my soleFrom dragging along cold ground.***Moist eyes breathe in the air,Looking alive with the scent of sunless skiesDancing across my face.***The landscape is a sink,Where the rusty faucet drips,Filling dimples in the dented bowl.I am the one who catches, carriesThis falling rain, so everyoneWith a lazy back can watch meAnd be grateful that I'm livingBecause, behind me I pullA wagon filled with their weight.
ExperienceI don't want sleepTo make me forgetWhat you did,Even when youCould almost closeYour eyesIn that instant.I don't want to cryMyself to sleep,Hating you forSomethingThat was alsoEquallyMy fault.I don't want toWake upTomorrow morningAnd have to hopeThat super glueCan holdMy smile on.I don't want to forgetAnythingThat made me say"I'm sorry",Because thatIs what gives meSomething to learn from.
Ever TrulyYou'd have to slit my throat and kill me,Detaching my head from its enabled body,To spill my thoughts and experience my dream world.Only then could you ever truly paintWith all the pigments of my imagination to recreateMy fantasies and bind them in a book to finally read my mind.You'd have to take a saw to my chest and cut me open,Separating skin and bones from my soul,To hear the broken beat and know my heart.Only then could you ever truly seeThe imperfection that is my genetic makeupWhen all you've ever known is my flawlessness.You'd have to crush my hands and smash my fingers,Unbuttoning my joints, keeping these capable palmsFrom my will, never again to get a hold on my thoughts.Only then could you ever truly feelThe empty weight of your hands hanging at your sides,Knowing that mine no longer carry emotion.You'd have to break my legs and unscrew my feet,Leaving me without means of escape, so I could lay on my backForever, searching for lightless points on your po