You are the flowers
that I throw into the fireplace.
A bright arrangement of petals,
smothered by black dust of judgment.
Melting under the intense pressure,
you quickly disappear.
All that is left,
is an intense burn.
You are the dandelion seed
that is blown into the air,
by a child's naive wish.
You travel far, only to fall
and plant yourself
in foreign dirt,
too far from me.
You are the paper
that I throw away.
Eloquent words,
full of hopeful love,
that wasn’t worthy enough
for this world’s art.
You are the dead art
that was judged out of existence.
I’m so sorry.