Where will I be if I don’t give you flowers?
By: Anthony Conwright
Where will I be if I don’t give you this rose?
I found this rose growing in my heart.
A stem full of word like petals, sprouting from cracks between chain-linked heartbeats.
Dying roots sprawled, stretching, pushing apart the clenches of oppression within my rib cage, and fighting for the breath of life through words.
Where will I be, if I don’t give you this orchid?
Lost, trying to find a home for where my heart is.
Created and cultivated in the womb and
I want to find my way back through you.
Following the traces of your smell in the sway of your hips.
Part your lips with tips of my tongue,
Trace these words over your curves until I’m tongue twisted.
Where will I be if I don’t give you these lilies?
Swallowing the weight of these flowers,
Compressing a heart turned grey, suffocating from passions kept in solitude
With eyes blinking to patch away the death of words unspoken, passing with each breath and wilting with age.
My heart would have to apologize for it’s silence and this wilted rose
So, if we kiss, I’ll bite my tongue, cut the silence and bleed words so you’ll know what I’m trying to say.
This garden, as bold as love,
Watered with mahogany, green, yellow, blue tears.
The sound of the wilting is a song my garden made for your ears.
Take my flowers,
So my rose won’t hurt anymore.