We Are Flowers | Stream of Consciousness

A field, full of armoured tanks and soldiers and guns – covered in beautiful, cut and wild flowers.

We march past, and people stop to take photos – turning war into Instagram.

We are flowers – once growing and beautiful but cut for the purpose of display and beauty, so we die. We add chemicals or dyes, we flatten and press them to try and preserve the life we have already taken. But we are flowers – once cut from our stem, we perish.

And as is the way of things. A beauty designed not to last. We are ruined by the spoils of greed and war – wanting more world than our home grown field. But one flower only needs one home to nurture it.

We long for youth and beauty and longevity- but they cannot co-exist. Time will make graves from us all.

Sleep | poetry

You fall asleep,

My hand to your cheek

At first it seems sweet

Then I think of blander motives

Am I interrupting your rest?

Is this just a unwillingness to move?

Then you pull my hand to your chest

Bringing it to rest, part of me on you

Where I should always have been,

And I remember what love feels like again.

Break Up. (Poem)

Breaking, upwards of the truth-

broken

down

to the grit,

the pieces beneath.

The essence of sadness, combined with

shock and spittle through angst and hatred.

Break, in the utmost foundation;

the line in the undusted,

the crack in the gateway.

Broken

by the bind,

seeping, the cold truth

soaks in

and you wake up,

wet and alone

unknown and blissful,

gone from the grip.

Restart.

Replaced,

Ruined by words.

‘I

think

we

should’,

Break   –   up.