My soul is a rusting flower
And when its harvest yields
I find myself drowning
In these horribly beautiful fields
Of gold, and pain, and laughter
Across torn grins; my soul
Paints brilliantly with these flowers
That refuse to devour that cold
I feel: that rare, confused beauty
Writhing behind brilliant eyes
My soul that smothers weakness –
That slits the throat that cries
I harbour compressed feelings
So my soul can’t strip me thin
It must go on; yielding
Those brilliant flowers from within
My soul is a dusty flower
That grows inside my chest,
And even though it’s lovely
I can never catch my breath