After several opinions I feel safe enough to post this poem I wrote for class. Particularly for shock value alone. Apparently all my assignments are too soft and fuzzy and people get confused by them. So I wrote one that was dark and demented.
SPOILERS! (Click to view)
All of MY Pretty Flowers
I walk down the street my eyes darting around looking over all of the pretty flowers.
Their colors and scents, peddles and blossoms each of them different and all of them the same.
The stems, the length and the color how smooth and silky some are.
beware of picking a flower with thorns
as they tend to try and do you harm.
I chose my flowers as I walk around,
but I never collect them till the sun goes down,
as there are some that would stop me if I just grab them up.
I only note their location and description in my little book.
I think of my collection of flowers, their scent now faded.
An awful odor has replaced it, but I cannot part with them.
The hues of their petals have faded from time.
Their blossoms have faded and been replaced with decay.
All that is left is the shadow of their bloom.
I discard the petals after a while,
I cut away the stems and keep only the blossoms.
What brought them to me, what made me chose them,
a memory faded away with time.
There are those that disagree with my collection,
they call it monstrous or demented,
knowing as I do, that my collection would be frowned upon
I keep it hidden away,
deep in the dark
hidden out of sight.
And even with this precaution,
I realize here and there,
that someone might see me burying the stems or the peddles or leaves,
that someone might catch the scent of my blossoms rotting on the breeze.
And stop me,
from collecting
all my pretty flowers.
But the way I felt or thought was wrong or creepy?