Roses upon my window sill.
Sway in the everpresent wind, gently leaning down towards it's root.
Do you feel that you've been tugged, scrapped, and pulled away.
Is it understood that your no longer your own, that you no longer have a say.
Youll wilt, limp, and turn gray soon; only to be replaced by the 'prettier, longer lasting tree'.
Knowing this you still stand, shining through your last seconds of fame.
How sad it is that you'll still get chunked anyway. |
Submission Name: The Journal: Fame
