Fake flowers 

Dear inventor of fake flowers, why?

I understand that maybe you just wanted to capture beauty and keep it forever,

but don’t you let people believe that looks will last.

Didn’t you realise that there is beauty in aging,

that there is character to the bunch with a few wilting stems?

You can’t trick me into believing that there is beauty in perfection,

see I’ve tried to reach it and failed many times.

Starved of water, we all die,

so how can pretty be pretty without the spark of alive?

See, this bunch may have been beautiful at first glance,

but I’ve had it for years now and nothings changed.

No new sprouts, no death-

No need to nurture and love for that won’t affect these fakes.

I don’t even look at them anymore.

Beautiful as they may be, they are less beautiful to me knowing that this is all that they will ever be.

Dear lover,

please don’t ever buy me fake flowers with the hope that I will feel comforted by everlasting beauty.

Buy me ones that will die.

One’s that I will therefore cherish for every moment that they are alive,

One’s with bruised petals and wilting stems but still fragrant so that I can see that beautiful is more than meets the eye.

Dear inventor of fake flowers, why?

Poetry by the amazingly talented https://fontsize4poetry.com

Blossom 

As I shift my focus towards what the lotus shows us,

I start to notice so much more,

its like hocus pocus and I’m free from the locust swarm of the norm,

returning to the form In which was born.

A new seed planted in my mind.

I Fertilised my perspective, to be less selective.

I now adore what I once abhorred.

I looked past the lies, and found I could photosynthesise… because that light inside us all…seems to be the only thing that feeds my eyes at all.
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Alone in this struggle, alone with this pain, alone in my bubble, alone in my brain.
Isolated from things I thought hated, yet my heart still beats heavy, and my moods all feel weighted.
Sourrounded by all I once saw as pure, but still feeling dirty inside…
separation is no cure…
De-rooted, so all my effort became fruitless…only under these barren branches do I realise what the truth is…
Every problem I have perceived in another, is also my own. Every struggle I have faced is somewhere I’ve grown… And  I never have, or ever will, do anything alone.

bonding

Paper tigers 

Paper tigers on the paper trail, earning their stripes without fail.

The Hunter talks of taking the beast by its tail, while the shepherd tells comforting wife’s tales, to the rest of the villagers praying not to fall prey.
Those from the west begin to flee east, from the heardless beast, that didn’t roar to be heard. The eye of the Tiger speaks a thousand words, all of which are echos of death.
Prowling quietly, growling silently, crouching low before it pounces violently…

Shades of black and bright vermillion, like a frightening fire that freezes millions… The Hunter tries to ride the Tiger wild, the shepherd would rather see it tamed.
They all fail to understand. To the beast, everyone is game… regardless of where they may stand.
Paper tigers lead us to the paper trial…

Naked 

Optimism, the stunning dress that accentuates her curves, the make-up that brings out her best features, a mask to hide all her beautiful flaws…

Pessimism
, the comfy outfit that makes it look like she didn’t try, the dark shades that cover the sparkle in her eyes, the thick blanket in a gloomy slumber. a dark cloak to cower under…

Realism
, the very skin she was born in, the way she is and not the way she wants to be seen, no clothes, jewelry, shoes or belts. nothing, but a naked reflection of her true self.

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(model: Danielle Sams)

I am 

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I am

I am

I am

I am as empty as the meaning of my opening line,

Yet as full as an avocado;

Ripe with potential to be sweet and smooth.

I don’t want to be vain,

I don’t mean to be as bold as the cock…

Of a gun,

Or to cock back my head and dictate this space,

Or dictate your pace,

But dictate my pace

And not waste…

My words, because you are going to listen to me.
even if I seem as empty as the meaning of my opening line…

Because my words are weapons, and my tongue is cocked back ready to shoot my soul at you…

I changed from a chicken into a rooster, so now I come across as cocky, when I crow at you … I just sat on my potential till it hatched.

I don’t want to be arrogant, but you are going to listen to every last word of my written rant.

Because until I find someone who can relate, at the pace I dictate

to what, I am;

Where, I am;

Who, I am;

and all. the emptyness I’ve faced.

My world and my words would have gone to waste

And I am… Just not going to let that happen.

(Co written by harmony farrell)