We're only flowers.
Planted in the ground among other flowers.
Growing up and reaching toward the sun.
Everyday is bright and fresh.
Until one day we're picked and taken to new exciting places.
We brighten the place up for a few weeks, maybe even longer; people take notice.
But as time goes by we're overlooked and fade into the scenery.
Then we start to wilt and droop.
The life sucked out of us by our surroundings.
As we shrivel and sag, we're noticed again but for the wrong reasons.
We're hung up in a closet, dry and dead, as nothing but a memory.
Or we're thrown back into the garden to rejoin the dirt.
And hope to grow back out of the ground and be picked again.
Just to have every petal plucked before finally declaring "she loves you not."
dm.
