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Snipping, Snapping Flowers
Folder:
The Rushing Stream of Desires
I wonder all the time how the snipping, snapping flowers
ever manage to grow? Rushing up through the dirt of
their existence, raising the cheer of the newly born.
Other weeds attack with gusto, other opinions will
be presented. Grasping, grabbing hands will reach
like claws for solutions. They will demand and stand
for no resistance. They will capture every flag.
I wonder why the light bulbs go out when they do? I wonder
why the words I'm saying will never amount to anything?
We are all rather like that, endless whispers of promises
that we never have any intention of keeping. Blowing
smoke bubbles of deceptions we are ensured of always being.
Regardless of the time of day, everything always seems to
go on with the same sense of failure. Knotted stomach
muscles suggesting that the era of peace we proclaimed with
our social revolution was nothing more than shadow puppets
flickering on the empty white wall. I wonder why my tongue
only tastes the victory of potted plant mentalities.
Will we ever decide to wander out into the rain together?
Letting the raindrops wet our perceptive smiles as we
grin like melted plastic in a garbage can by the roadside.
Don't promise me checks and balances when the very
world is contrary to determined sets of standards.
I wonder all the time how the snipping, snapping flowers
ever manage to grow? Rushing up through the dirt of
their existence, raising the cheer of the newly born.
