I was potted young;
plastic roots, ornamental pain.
he watered in vacuum,
fed me light laced with command.
The glass rustles at night.
it’s not wind but memory, bleeding through.
photosynthesis became obedience.
my leaves curl not from thirst, but dread.
I grew in the shape of his want.
snapped stems are easier to arrange.
he names the bruises sunspots,
says they happen when i reach too far.
I once tried to die quietly;
even decay must be earned here.
but the soil refused me.
even rot recoils from a lie this alive.
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Author:
JHienz (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: May 6th, 2025 04:16
- Comment from author about the poem: sometimes i write to get things out of my head. sometimes it’s just because i have to. either way, here’s a piece i've been sitting with for a while. hope you feel something when you read it. always love hearing your thoughts too.
- Category: Reflection
- Views: 8
Offline)
Comments1
What I felt I did not like. The feeling of control, the artificial creation and desires of a controlling entity imposing their will over not only my appearance and actions but my very right to exist or not. It did feel plastic and a kind of 1984 experience in an Orwellian manner. Well written
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