Tulips grow out of my skin
with roots tangling around this body I once called prison.
To this day, whenever I despise my beating heart,
I remind myself that flowers grow within the cracks of my skin,
inbetween dark and hollow spots,
where once was nothing but grief.
I remind myself that bleeding is healing
and that the tears I cried have been the cleaning rain for my soul.
I remind myself that tulips do not grow
without the cold breeze of winter;
and so do I.
For I have been growing out of pain,
and I will survive each winter to bloom again.

Jehona Thaqi© you will not destroy me


Withering flower


Remember this;
if you find my petals withered and crooked,
lying still upon the freshly sprouted grass,
then leave me there.
Do not try to give life to the dead,
for its time of beauty has passed so quickly within a temporary world.

Remember this;
if you find my heart in pieces,
then do not mend the broken,
for the broken has its way of saying that pain has been stronger than its capacity of being what it was.

Beating hearts, like flowers are the most majestic creations of God.
But remember, broken hearts may be beating, 
but its glory has passed like withering flowers.

Jehona Thaqi© does this poem even matter