The serenity of the morning
gently awakens me.
The golden hue
spills into my room,
The birds sing,
undisturbed,
And the humans
begin to stir.
As I lay there in my bed,
existing between night and day,
I just sit there in dread;
I would prefer to decay.
The serenity
is sickening,
The light
is lament,
And the singing birds sound
like an air vent.
During the day,
I dream of sleep,
Hoping to obtain
the ultimate peace.
Why am I like this?
I’m supposed to love
the day,
To take advantage of the light
that allows me to display
My beautiful petals
and my sturdy stem.
But I hate those petals,
I hate that stem,
I hate the roots
That grew me them.
I wish for rain,
pray for a flood
To rot my roots
and clean my blood.
I can’t die,
As I’m only a sprout.
I wish I could ask for help,
but I can only silently shout.
So I sit there in my bed,
rotting away.
Because although I am alive,
I experience a daily decay.