mythoughtspill.com

I play among perfect flowers,

Scented, sweet, in rich black soil.

Am tempted to peek at the forest,

One tires of the rose,

To see the untouched, overgrown, hungry weeds that thrive.

I am told not to play their dangerous lurks,

Wild and untamed,

But I think its fine not being perfect,

It’s different, when nothing’s the same.