Wilt

Plant the public’s view

in a garden

where color peeks through the foliage,

where men stop and smell the roses,

the hemlocks,

the long locks.

Where I sit

buried by the roots of my scalp,

the veins to my heart.

I shear the hair at the nape,

and now I’m soiled.

‘Why won’t you let it grow?

Tend to it like the rest?

Satisfy my eye?’

I am not

your sweet pea,

your yellow rose,

your summer daisy.

I am

the sagebrush in the sea,

the tangled vine.

I won’t arrange,

won’t succumb,

won’t wilt.

Comments

Additional Resources

Get AI Feedback on your poem

Interested in feedback on your poem? Try our AI Feedback tool.
 

 

If You Need Support

If you ever need help or support, we trust CrisisTextline.org for people dealing with depression. Text HOME to 741741