“The prettiest flowers are the ones that get picked”
Peonies get picked.
Their pink petals folding in people\'s hands.
They get the attention,
They get a pretty vase,
They get photographed.
People cut and carry them away.
Peonies get picked because of their beauty,
Their vibrancy.
Peonies are wanted.
Forget-me-nots don\'t get picked.
Their soft blue colour often overlooked.
They get ignored,
They get walked around or stepped on.
Squashed, ripped, broken and forgotten.
Forget-me-nots don\'t get picked,
Because their presence is always calm,
Always small,
Nearly invisible,
Peonies learn early,
That getting picked means getting handled,
And that being picked,
It\'s not always a choice.
Everyone wanted a part of them,
Taking and taking,
Until there was nothing left rooted.
Forget-me-nots grow close to the earth,
They learned to make themselves smaller,
More invisible,
More forgettable.
They mastered survival,
By being unnoticed.
Nobody wanted a part of them,
Waiting and waiting,
Until hope wilted too.
Peonies sit in a vase,
Centred on the table,
For people to watch and admire.
Peonies sit in a vase,
Wilting for people,
Who stopped caring,
When their beauty,
Slowly left.
Forget-me-nots sit in a garden,
Hidden at the back,
Waiting for people to remember.
Forget-me-nots sit in a garden.
Wilting for people,
Who never noticed,
Their presence.
Never noticing,
When they began to wilt.
Peonies stretch towards the sun,
Afraid of who they are,
If they\'re not picked,
Because peonies,
Are always picked.
But they get picked,
So they can have momentary attention,
Attention could not stop their decay.
The warmth they craved,
Not staying for long.
Peonies believed,
Warmth and love,
Were the same thing.
Only realising their mistake,
As they wilted,
Left on the ground,
They fought to leave.
Forget-me-nots learned to bloom in shade,
Afraid of who they are,
If they are picked
Because the shade,
Has become a friend.
They bloom in darkness,
Because it became comfort,
After being there too long.
The idea of being picked,
Something they long for,
Yet scared to have
Forget-me-nots believed,
Darkness and comfort,
Were the same thing,
Only realising their mistake
As their petals bruise,
In the comfort of silence,
They wanted warmth,
But got too used to the cold.
Maybe neither flower really understood,
That being loved and being wanted,
Were never truly the same thing.
Peonies were admired for so long,
Until there was nothing,
Left to admire.
Forget-me-nots were ignored for so long,
Until eventually,
They forgot how to reach,
Toward the light.
The irony is that,
Both flowers wilted anyway.
One got held for too long.
And one was never held.
But some flowers remain rooted
Neither forgotten nor picked.
Some grow quietly,
Rooted somewhere between
Being wanted
And being forgotten.
In a space that never taught them,
To fear warmth or cold.
Maybe flowers were never meant
To spend their whole lives
Afraid of being picked
Or forgotten.
Maybe they were only meant
To bloom.