When flowers are all you’ve got left, and the petals all fall off. forward your “R.I.P’s” and memories straight to the cause of death. you say you’d give it all for one last breath? i’d pay that just to take it back. when the soils all dug up, and you’re histories all found out, you’ve made the grave yourself. i’m putting all my words in similes, hoping my far off dreams, are not too few and far between. like a vessel with a hole, my discontent sets sea, burn all the pictures of me, and bury me in memories. so when the flowers are beat up, stepped on, and torn, just remember, flowers only grow at home.
I’m tracing words in an unsure pen. faded black inscribed in a lined canvas plagued with thoughts. i’ll dub my paragraphs a memoriam to my state of mind. put it six feet under, pour water on it, and pray that it will grow. i’ll remain on the ground with my head to the sky. call it a false sense of security, or a skit i call my life. sign countless parcels of paper with words right from my heart. but when my heartbeat stops how long until you’ve forgot? every late night, drive to nowhere, or better yet, anywhere but here. “home” is just another four letter word, a synonym for “fuck” and “again” home is where the heart is. but my heart isn’t home. it wears a sign, reading “Vacancy” I was born to die alone.
