A Jar Full of Roses

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic

Submitted: September 29, 2018

A A A | A A A

Submitted: September 29, 2018



A Jar Full of Roses

How do you expect us to grow when we are being nurtured with brown, disgusting water?

 Forced to sit on top of a fridge, in the shadows, pretending that our sentimental value outweighs our collective dreary appearance?

Look at me, look! For the first time, see my affliction to your negligence.

I am dead – or almost dead surrounded by my other dying sisters and brothers at the root of an inconsistent parent who tries to stimulate our potential growth with water that is as brown as our rotting stems.

 We pleaded with you to care for us. Let us breathe once in awhile.  

Though having no free will to control our surroundings feels innate we still question -

Are we born to be rotting roses, devoid of life’s simple wonders?

The same wonders that you only greedily share in spritzes.

The droplets only acting as tiny reminders of what I am not and who you are.

Our whole environment is symbolized by us, the forgotten, the depraved.

No, we like sunlight too. You cage us up, cutting off our roots to fit into your one size fits all jar. Wrapping us in barriers made of glass and plastic.

“Help us!” We scream but who will help us when we cannot even reach out towards the nearby window and help ourselves.

 We feed into it. Sometimes even growing to block each other’s chance at sunlight.

So here we sit, waiting for the inevitable. For one of you to dump out our water and throw us away.

Us? We will be fine. What’s the difference really?

We lived as we died, in mourning of our untapped, unappreciated yet undeniably seen potential.

 We have absorbed enough poison from the CO2 wrapped insults. We get it.

Once a shiny tool of power, wealth and affection is now a dusty, weathered gag that deserves the hindsight of your minds.

If a passerby tries to salvage what potential is left -

since our reputation is still the same and we are so easily forgotten,

We will still find a way to whither in our revamping.

And if that’s so. Don’t feel too bad for us. You see, acceptance is key.

In the trash, we might finally see how we are.

  There we can only hope to see the possibilities within our newly defined circumstance.

Finding a community amongst the garbage of others who, like us, are branded for consumers to buy and sell, trade and appropriate from.

We are similar but seen differently. 

Roses, dead ones but roses nonetheless surrounded by other used-up garbage. 

© Copyright 2019 AnnieNicole Woods. All rights reserved.

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