The flowers have texture
Look through this microscope
Even a beautiful rose
Has sharp edges
That you just aren't
Equipped to notice
It doesn't mean the pain
Exists only in imagination.
Maybe smoothness is just a ploy
Your bed of rose petals
A bed of thorns
What is the difference
Perception perhaps,
Idea of identity
And you can't say
Whose technicolor version
Of beauty and hurt
Will exist in this place.
Oh yeah, send me
Some violet-colored
Apple blossoms
No one's completely immune
To superficial charming.
And there are things beautiful
To each human inhabitant
And sometimes
Some are common
Shared between some.
But don't put
Those lilies at my feet
Assume that you've
Paid my price
Beauty cannot claim me
Cannot be your tool
To gain me or life
The jasmine in my mind
Is something you can't pick
And put in your vase.
Do I remind you
Of a bunch of weeds?
Just a little something
To look ugly
And ruin your garden?
I know your standards
Outgrow the ivy
The years that pass us,
You, you rosebush,
Are just so young and perfect
How dare I intrude
Upon your pretty borders
You've not found a flower
In me yet
So dig me up
Throw me away
If I'm not your rose,
If I'm not your hyacinth,
I'm nothing.
Maybe it's not that way
I have texture
I have form
A centerpiece.
But it matters not
Not to you
Well, your lilac breath
Just sickens me
One phrase for your
Mentality of arrangement
No hay flores aqui.
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