I bought myself roses the other day,
If you ask me why, I could say, ‘’just because’’,
But, the truth is, it was my birthday,
I wished someone would buy me flowers before I took a pause,
And thought to myself, ‘’hey, why don’t I get them for myself?’’
This act, seemingly insignificant, was a milestone,
I realized, my happiness is mine to create,
Something I should have known,
Long before I gave the world the power to dictate
How I feel.
The beautiful orange roses sat on my bedside table,
Dying a slow but beautiful death, as the days passed,
In my head, I knew it was inevitable,
But in my heart, I wanted it to last,
So, I saved the dried petals in a jar.
They’re like words on paper,
The skeleton of what was once a beautiful moment in time,
And, there’s no love greater
Than a poet’s love for rhyme,
Aargh, I’m rambling again.