Yesterday, I dropped a cup – it shattered

Into less pieces than did the psyche

Of the main character of my new book.

Raised protagonist too, I’m not flattered

That folk called me strong where I proved spiky

Lauding thorns while, my blossoms, they forsook.

There’s an adage champions come from strife

A notion turmoil is what brings power

A belief buds aren’t dear to the briar

But I toiled so to bring petals to life

Pushed through snow and faced droughts just to flower

Only to be turned into barbed wire.

My castle boasts no balls, it’s made fortress

My story boasts no belle, she’s made beastly

This is not the tale I sought to relay

So, since I flourished to speak tenderness

And my tome’s plot is floriography

I find the heart to reclaim my bouquet.

Each protagonist exists to protect

That which is precious from what would cause pain

Thus, I weave daisy chains to guard my “no”

I pick up the blooms that people reject

Marvel alone at how soft they remain

Root in defiance… and let colours grow.

I’m undeniably sinking.

When water has entered a boat

When a vessel won’t stay afloat

There’s a hole in the ship to note

And good sense would have one seek to patch up the flaw.

I could almost believe such a harbinger true

But I built this barge and, in the plans that I drew,

I put no such gaps – yet I still checked through and through

And found my dinghy to be sound.

The problem, I think, lies therein:

I’m in a canoe, soaked to skin

And lost at sea, to my chagrin.

Your waves crest high as you ask me to check for leaks.

I am obviously full of misperception

I visibly need some healing intervention

I’m undeniably sinking, near perdition

But from within or from without?

In the end, a siege does not poor construction make.

Where I am, there’s paper – it’s the sole concession

I’m left to express who I am in depression

With my forcibly bound voice and my inkless hands.

What’s paper worth without a tale?

When all opportunities fail

I sit and fold origami.

Expecting that I’ll go unheard

I build nests, assign each a bird

Lacking words, I craft safe spaces.

But in my birdies, there’s a song

That draws to me a gleeful throng

Whom I show how to flap their wings.

I was taught to fear bearing fruit

Then nearly cut down at the root

Because I did not, yield, produce.

It’s like trees are deemed scrap paper if they can’t feed

As if being house to birds and the nests they need

Isn’t in and of itself an act of greatness.