the flower stood slightly lilting to the left of center, its red and gold petals curling back upon themselves as this single graceful bloom reached the darker side of life, wilting leaves, growing brown, yellow, crackly and crunchy underfoot. The sound of growing up, of coming to bloom after a childhood spent running through the piles of leaves in the late autum sun. And once the bloom has had its day, it too will fade and wilt, bending gracefully to the side, petals folding back against themselves, leaves falling,
Your hair-wilting aftershave. Your talent for making a sandwich from *anything*. Your oak-leaf tattooed neck. Your musky white shirts, your perpetually missing buttons, your soft waist, your hard shoulders, your shrapnel scars, your love for pickles and fried tomatoes and chili-dogs. It’s not those I miss. It’s loving them I miss.
I really don’t know what wilting means but it looks like a beautiful word.It even sounds beautiful when I am saying it aloud.I wonder what it really means.And I am about to look it up on the dictionary.
the stifling heat of the day was wearing her down, like the flowers in the vase on the kitchen bench, she was wilting. a quick refreshing drink would do her well and she noticed her flowers as well.
“I’m sorry the view isn’t more pleasing, my lady. It seems the flowers are wilting and the gardeners have no explanation. It’s just so odd for this time of year…”
“Even the gardens mourn her loss,” I said quietly, my voice hollow, brittle like an old bone.
She looked over at me, tilting her head to the side. “Mourn whose loss, my lady?”
I shook my head, remembering belatedly I wasn’t alone with my musings. “Nothing. No one’s. It doesn’t matter now.” I turned my eyes back to the window. “Bring my daughter to me.”
“But, my lady, she’s in the middle of her lessons-”
“My daughter, Serah. Bring her.” my tone brooked no room for disobedience and she nodded.
My tongue withers at the thought of drinking that concoction again. Another sip is offered. I politely decline. After all, later I have to drive. And besides, I’ve got too much on my mind for games such as those.
The last petals fell off of the last white rose on the last bouquet you gave me. And as I watched the last piece of hope flake off from the nearly dead flower, I felt myself wilting away as well.
I want to keep the petals before it dies. I’ll take them off one by one, arrange them between some paper in a certain arrangement within a book and store them for years and years. I’ll find them again…years later….maybe I will have forgotten them by then…as I did…with that rose she gave me…it was a nice surprise…
I feel my shoulders turn into me as I walk down the empty hallway. My spirit has wilted, I am dejected. And so I try to be that, what that feeling is in this moment. I want to be it entirely. I am.
She wilted in the heat. She wilted like a flower would wilt, slowly. Slowly until she shriveled completely and felt nothing and heard nothing and saw no one.
I don’t know how, or why I feel this way, but at the ripe age of 18, I already feel myself wilting. I’m not what everyone around me. I didn’t get accepted to my dream college let alone apply. I just don’t try. And that’s what makes me wilt.
Whatever proverbial flowers that might be growing inside of my head, according to whatever philosopher or tumblr poet, are probably dead. I cant be too sure, but when they slice open my body upon my death bed, I wouldn’t be surprised to know that all they found inside of me was dried petals and xanax pills.
I feel like any of the flowers that are supposed to be growing inside of me according to whatever philosopher I can’t remember the name of are finally wilting. I can’t tell you why, or if any of them are officially dead, but don’t be surprised that if during my autopsy all that comes out are dead flower petals and xanax.
The flora and fauna are wilting away to nothing. The lack of rain leading to the death of all things around. Everyone is counting the days until humans began to scavenge and kill for the life sustaining water that is refusing to fall.
Spritis are wilting as they move throtugh this world and onto the next one. What is that way to keep our spritits fressh and alive, not consumed or wilted like the flowers of a plant or like th efresh mint of the tea we drink.
How is it that we are wilting yet we have the fresh green tree of islam.
Are we talking about the wilting of flowers or the wilting of people. Both are beautiful but, sad. as the life leaks out of the chamber it is held in. It is so mysteriuos how life comes and goes. We enjy it and don’t fully embrace the wilting. We shame it away. Afterallthis is a wrld of beauty and wilting is not beautiful to most people.
As fall approached the roses began to lose their luster. What was once standing tall and confident is now hunched and ghastly without the sun’s glow. Is this really a rose or the definition of seasonal depression?
Like a flower in the blazing heat of high noon, in the tropical sun, I felt like I was wilting from the pain that kept me thrashing, and crying, and begging for relief. All I want to feel is one day without pain. One day, and I will rejoice.
nothing ever changes much
besides the obvious ascetics
as leaves shrivel inward
I watch you arch your back
profound, what vertebrae can do
arms locked tightly
you won’t let me past your bones
filament behind your eyes
sputters slowly to a close
I know that you can hear these words
comatose, you shudder
stutter, stutter s-st-stampede
stop me in my stammered syntax
of all the things I’d like to come out right
but you have stepped behind a wall
it’s snowing out our window
which is to say, out in the world
just not in this living room
where you practice playing dead
the lightning storm stuck in your throat
cracks me at the knuckles
pop-pop-pop
“Oh stop!”
you must hate me so
I always dreamed of spoken word
and holding my own microphone
but we live in strewn out poetry
and I know that you can hear these words
composed, I feel you wilting
don’t skewer me with litotes
and and and the stop and stop of asyndeton run-on lists of
don’t don’t don’t do not!
tell me I have changed
the ascetics of your frame of mind
are beautiful, and falling
leaves lose life and dissappear
but you just close the curtains
and it’s snowing out our window now
we could walk down to the pond
and skate on ice that does not shatter
but I know something like that
and it distorts my sight
nothing ever changes much
just the cycle of the seasons
beyond this pane of glass
darling, you have hurt me
composed, feel you wilting
Wilting is difficult word, I don’t know it meaning, but my passion about writing is increasing day by day and one I’ll become a professsional writer. Recently I found of meaning this word in dictionary, it’s meaning weak. Therefore, weak related to any cate
“She’s wilting,” Joey whispered to me one humid summer afternoon. “Ole Willow’s wilting.”
Of course, Ole Willow wasn’t really wilting. She wasn’t wilting as a daisy wilts after its gardener forgets to water it after a few days, nor was she wilting as someone of a broken heart does. But I knew what Joey meant. He meant that an ending–an ending to what, I have no idea–was upon us. There was some kind of new era just on the horizon, and Joey and I would watch that new era envelop us a few hours later in either rays of opportunity or clouds of misfortune. We would watch as the sun rose over the hill (and on top of it, Ole Willow) and we would hold one another’s hands and we would hope, as we did each time something foreign happened in our lands, and we would stand our ground until we fell and became one with the earth.
The spinach in the refrigerator is wilting. I hate it when that happens. I prefer my spinach fresh, you see? It is crisp and green and quite the opposite of wilted.
I sat there, wilting like the flowers that hadn’t been watered for a week. “This is September,” I thought to myself, “it’s supposed to start cooling down!”. Little did I know that it wasn’t just the sun that was causing all the heat.
The flowers will either wilt when they’re ready
Or when your hand on the can becomes unsteady
So pour a little water across the wishes I left
Before I put the feelings to rest
The tree was wilting. The poor leaves had dried and become thin crisps of plant matter. The crinkling sound the made as I walked away, stepping through so many, caused my heart to ache. I had just killed this tree.
it was once a rose. a beautiful one, at that. deep red petals adorning a vibrant green body. it was perfectly crafted, but not perfectly designed, for when the water ran dry, so did its delicate life. drooping now, bowing to the wind, you can almost see tears on its wilted petals before they succumb to starvation and shrivel into nonexistence.
wilting slowly
the summers over
and my need for sun
and mindless deeds
and tans and ice creams
is not quenched
but time is running out
i have not been watered
and im tilting
slilting
lilting
sliding
tipping
turning
bending
wilting
My mind is wilting from the image of your face, your rotten face, blankly staring ahead. The twisted, intelligent mush of my brain has tangled itself into a mess I can’t be bothered to clean up. Pink strings are knotted in my head, and my tongue’s tied halfway down my throat, and my hearts climbing it’s way up, desperately clawing it’s way towards the roof of my mouth to see the ugly truth and make sure that it’s real, that it’s true.
And your face.
Your face.
Your face is so sad, your eyes have lost their sparkle of life.
And your mouth.
It’s set into a line, so neutral, unlike the happy person I once knew.
And as time goes on and the flowers in my hands wilt with the force of time and sadness, my heart slides sullenly back to where it belongs, and that’s where the tears start.
My shoes are new, shiny, converse. Perfect. But then I step in some mud. Then I think ‘why not’? Then the sharpies come in. Paint lines the battle field. White-out, sure, what the heck? Shoes slowly wilt but I glob them with lines, words, patterns, pictures. Some call them old, crusty, but I call them loved.
the flower stood slightly lilting to the left of center, its red and gold petals curling back upon themselves as this single graceful bloom reached the darker side of life, wilting leaves, growing brown, yellow, crackly and crunchy underfoot. The sound of growing up, of coming to bloom after a childhood spent running through the piles of leaves in the late autum sun. And once the bloom has had its day, it too will fade and wilt, bending gracefully to the side, petals folding back against themselves, leaves falling,
Your hair-wilting aftershave. Your talent for making a sandwich from *anything*. Your oak-leaf tattooed neck. Your musky white shirts, your perpetually missing buttons, your soft waist, your hard shoulders, your shrapnel scars, your love for pickles and fried tomatoes and chili-dogs. It’s not those I miss. It’s loving them I miss.
I really don’t know what wilting means but it looks like a beautiful word.It even sounds beautiful when I am saying it aloud.I wonder what it really means.And I am about to look it up on the dictionary.
flowers
hot summer day
sadness
the stifling heat of the day was wearing her down, like the flowers in the vase on the kitchen bench, she was wilting. a quick refreshing drink would do her well and she noticed her flowers as well.
The wilting dreams and hopes In my mind are tearing me apart, it is killing me on the inside. It hurts to sleep, to dream, and to live. -Lysh
“I’m sorry the view isn’t more pleasing, my lady. It seems the flowers are wilting and the gardeners have no explanation. It’s just so odd for this time of year…”
“Even the gardens mourn her loss,” I said quietly, my voice hollow, brittle like an old bone.
She looked over at me, tilting her head to the side. “Mourn whose loss, my lady?”
I shook my head, remembering belatedly I wasn’t alone with my musings. “Nothing. No one’s. It doesn’t matter now.” I turned my eyes back to the window. “Bring my daughter to me.”
“But, my lady, she’s in the middle of her lessons-”
“My daughter, Serah. Bring her.” my tone brooked no room for disobedience and she nodded.
My tongue withers at the thought of drinking that concoction again. Another sip is offered. I politely decline. After all, later I have to drive. And besides, I’ve got too much on my mind for games such as those.
Her confidence wilting, she searched desperately around the room for a familiar face.
The last petals fell off of the last white rose on the last bouquet you gave me. And as I watched the last piece of hope flake off from the nearly dead flower, I felt myself wilting away as well.
wilting
i wilt every time
i see your beautiful
neck
back
eyebrows
i’m sorry love,
i can’t see you anymore
I want to keep the petals before it dies. I’ll take them off one by one, arrange them between some paper in a certain arrangement within a book and store them for years and years. I’ll find them again…years later….maybe I will have forgotten them by then…as I did…with that rose she gave me…it was a nice surprise…
I feel my shoulders turn into me as I walk down the empty hallway. My spirit has wilted, I am dejected. And so I try to be that, what that feeling is in this moment. I want to be it entirely. I am.
Petals off a rose, tortured and tormented they fall. Crumbling foundations, I would have given you everything, my all.
She wilted in the heat. She wilted like a flower would wilt, slowly. Slowly until she shriveled completely and felt nothing and heard nothing and saw no one.
I don’t know how, or why I feel this way, but at the ripe age of 18, I already feel myself wilting. I’m not what everyone around me. I didn’t get accepted to my dream college let alone apply. I just don’t try. And that’s what makes me wilt.
Whatever proverbial flowers that might be growing inside of my head, according to whatever philosopher or tumblr poet, are probably dead. I cant be too sure, but when they slice open my body upon my death bed, I wouldn’t be surprised to know that all they found inside of me was dried petals and xanax pills.
I feel like any of the flowers that are supposed to be growing inside of me according to whatever philosopher I can’t remember the name of are finally wilting. I can’t tell you why, or if any of them are officially dead, but don’t be surprised that if during my autopsy all that comes out are dead flower petals and xanax.
The flora and fauna are wilting away to nothing. The lack of rain leading to the death of all things around. Everyone is counting the days until humans began to scavenge and kill for the life sustaining water that is refusing to fall.
Spritis are wilting as they move throtugh this world and onto the next one. What is that way to keep our spritits fressh and alive, not consumed or wilted like the flowers of a plant or like th efresh mint of the tea we drink.
How is it that we are wilting yet we have the fresh green tree of islam.
What is it that is causing this?
Are we talking about the wilting of flowers or the wilting of people. Both are beautiful but, sad. as the life leaks out of the chamber it is held in. It is so mysteriuos how life comes and goes. We enjy it and don’t fully embrace the wilting. We shame it away. Afterallthis is a wrld of beauty and wilting is not beautiful to most people.
As fall approached the roses began to lose their luster. What was once standing tall and confident is now hunched and ghastly without the sun’s glow. Is this really a rose or the definition of seasonal depression?
Like a flower in the blazing heat of high noon, in the tropical sun, I felt like I was wilting from the pain that kept me thrashing, and crying, and begging for relief. All I want to feel is one day without pain. One day, and I will rejoice.
The flower was dying. It’s petals where drooping, it’s stem was sagging. Soon it would fall, and drift away in the wind…
nothing ever changes much
besides the obvious ascetics
as leaves shrivel inward
I watch you arch your back
profound, what vertebrae can do
arms locked tightly
you won’t let me past your bones
filament behind your eyes
sputters slowly to a close
I know that you can hear these words
comatose, you shudder
stutter, stutter s-st-stampede
stop me in my stammered syntax
of all the things I’d like to come out right
but you have stepped behind a wall
it’s snowing out our window
which is to say, out in the world
just not in this living room
where you practice playing dead
the lightning storm stuck in your throat
cracks me at the knuckles
pop-pop-pop
“Oh stop!”
you must hate me so
I always dreamed of spoken word
and holding my own microphone
but we live in strewn out poetry
and I know that you can hear these words
composed, I feel you wilting
don’t skewer me with litotes
and and and the stop and stop of asyndeton run-on lists of
don’t don’t don’t do not!
tell me I have changed
the ascetics of your frame of mind
are beautiful, and falling
leaves lose life and dissappear
but you just close the curtains
and it’s snowing out our window now
we could walk down to the pond
and skate on ice that does not shatter
but I know something like that
and it distorts my sight
nothing ever changes much
just the cycle of the seasons
beyond this pane of glass
darling, you have hurt me
composed, feel you wilting
Wilting is difficult word, I don’t know it meaning, but my passion about writing is increasing day by day and one I’ll become a professsional writer. Recently I found of meaning this word in dictionary, it’s meaning weak. Therefore, weak related to any cate
I am wilting beneath the Florida sun. My skin feels of leather and smells of sweat. gross.
“She’s wilting,” Joey whispered to me one humid summer afternoon. “Ole Willow’s wilting.”
Of course, Ole Willow wasn’t really wilting. She wasn’t wilting as a daisy wilts after its gardener forgets to water it after a few days, nor was she wilting as someone of a broken heart does. But I knew what Joey meant. He meant that an ending–an ending to what, I have no idea–was upon us. There was some kind of new era just on the horizon, and Joey and I would watch that new era envelop us a few hours later in either rays of opportunity or clouds of misfortune. We would watch as the sun rose over the hill (and on top of it, Ole Willow) and we would hold one another’s hands and we would hope, as we did each time something foreign happened in our lands, and we would stand our ground until we fell and became one with the earth.
The spinach in the refrigerator is wilting. I hate it when that happens. I prefer my spinach fresh, you see? It is crisp and green and quite the opposite of wilted.
I am nothing without you. You run me dry. I wilt away simply because my existence means nothing to her kingliness. I am nothing.
I sat there, wilting like the flowers that hadn’t been watered for a week. “This is September,” I thought to myself, “it’s supposed to start cooling down!”. Little did I know that it wasn’t just the sun that was causing all the heat.
he left her body flaccid
drunk her dry
wilting, her womanly flower had become
The flowers will either wilt when they’re ready
Or when your hand on the can becomes unsteady
So pour a little water across the wishes I left
Before I put the feelings to rest
Everyday he feels,
rejected, hopeless, useless,
But then, his family visits, and he feels
disgusting, purposeless, worse than nothing…
What is worth this sort of agony, but the hope that passes him by
mocking, jeering, holding its sides together with laughter
The tree was wilting. The poor leaves had dried and become thin crisps of plant matter. The crinkling sound the made as I walked away, stepping through so many, caused my heart to ache. I had just killed this tree.
The rose bush blooms bright with great fragrance.
What began a as a bud grows larger and opens.
It declares its joy with beauty and perfume.
As time passes the bud’s color diminishes.
Its aroma fades.
The bloom wilts and shrivels.
It falls from the stem, dead and dreary.
This is not the end for the rose, only the bloom.
The plant endures and blooms again and again.
The seasons move from Spring to Summer and into Fall.
Life changes, evolves, and moves on.
The flowers learn to wilt
before they learn to smile.
it was once a rose. a beautiful one, at that. deep red petals adorning a vibrant green body. it was perfectly crafted, but not perfectly designed, for when the water ran dry, so did its delicate life. drooping now, bowing to the wind, you can almost see tears on its wilted petals before they succumb to starvation and shrivel into nonexistence.
wilting slowly
the summers over
and my need for sun
and mindless deeds
and tans and ice creams
is not quenched
but time is running out
i have not been watered
and im tilting
slilting
lilting
sliding
tipping
turning
bending
wilting
My mind is wilting from the image of your face, your rotten face, blankly staring ahead. The twisted, intelligent mush of my brain has tangled itself into a mess I can’t be bothered to clean up. Pink strings are knotted in my head, and my tongue’s tied halfway down my throat, and my hearts climbing it’s way up, desperately clawing it’s way towards the roof of my mouth to see the ugly truth and make sure that it’s real, that it’s true.
And your face.
Your face.
Your face is so sad, your eyes have lost their sparkle of life.
And your mouth.
It’s set into a line, so neutral, unlike the happy person I once knew.
And as time goes on and the flowers in my hands wilt with the force of time and sadness, my heart slides sullenly back to where it belongs, and that’s where the tears start.
My shoes are new, shiny, converse. Perfect. But then I step in some mud. Then I think ‘why not’? Then the sharpies come in. Paint lines the battle field. White-out, sure, what the heck? Shoes slowly wilt but I glob them with lines, words, patterns, pictures. Some call them old, crusty, but I call them loved.