i always longed to be

the flower that would be picked

you would stumble across me in a field

filled with dozens of other suitors

but something about me

would stop you in your tracks

you couldn’t sleep at night

if you didn’t have me

perched on your bedside table

waiting to greet you

with my fluorescent shades

when you rose with the sun

a fleeting pleasure

reminding you of the vastness i came from

when you are trapped

in the prison of your mind

but then i realized

you picking me

would kill me

my petals

would slowly fall

my emerald green stem

would fade

like the silver clouds

on a rainy summer day

i would slowly wilt

and turn to dust

like the ashes of my grandmother

never to be restored

and then i realized

you not picking me

allowed me to grow

my stem so high

i could kiss the sun

my petals so bright

they would radiate danger

to any living thing to threaten my existence

the seeds in my ovary

shedding like the coat

of a pure bred stallion

in the heat of july

conceiving more life

than you could’ve ever breathed into me

you not picking me

saved me

and everything i had the ability to create

you not picking me

allowed me

to answer the call of my fate

i do not wish to be picked

because you like the presence

my beauty brings

i wish to be watered

because you allow me to bloom

and my roots to sing

“If you love a flower, don’t pick it. Because if you pick it up it dies, and it ceases to be what you love. If you love a flower, let it be. Love is not about possession. Love is about appreciation.” -Osho