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Death
When I look at flowers in a vase slowing dying, I think about the fact that I'll be gone, too, one of these days, I look at how all of the petals are falling off.
It’s like getting sick, and each day you’re getting worse, knowing you might just die, each petal is all the pain you have.
This flower vase holding the flowers, trying to keep them together and alive, trying to give them a cure by holding water at the bottom.

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This poem is about, the fact of knowing you might die.