I have planted tulips
in our garden –
just in time,
before the first snow of this winter
covers the ground.

You glare at my hands,
covered in scars and blisters –
I wonder if you remember their first touch upon your skin,
how softly they danced upon your cheeks.

You have packed your bags,
with more clothes and personal things,
then memories we have made –
and as you look back for the last time
I lower my gaze.

I have planted tulips
in our garden –
just in time.

You left me
broken and small,
but I will grow upon grief
and unfold
like the tulips
in my garden.

Jehona Thaqi©



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