The flowers of mine.

My flowers haven’t got smell, they talk to each other, communicate amidst themselves with outstanding speaking skill. They speak in ‘petalish’, the language of the smoothest fibres.

My flowers were conceived to satiate, not to please, never to soothe, nor to rejoice, not even at all to beautify. They’ve rather been made to embitter than any other thing, if I could choose. But my flowers were created to pain; to hurt other people’s ever hardened indulgent hearts. To dig bottomless holes, puddles without mud or sewage to moisturise.

My flowers were made to satiate other one’s hunger, anyone, someone whom art belongs to even when ownerless. Flowers also make part of the wool within that button of the shirt, which was left behind, cowardly abandoned with no excuses.

My flowers were made to fuddle violent ruffians, unspoken, those unmentioned damn without ways and how.

My flowers, as I most thus refer to them, are not mine. They’ve already flown away. They’ve coloured and risen up other walls but mine, infamous distant walls.

Flowers, as I most attempt complicating them, are just flowers. So simple as singular words can be figured out.

Flowers, the ones of mine, are to finish the hunger of who does not feel it; create and undo the germ of wish, which does not desire; to paraphrase reality, to contradict the lie, to deceive mocking the truth, to dazzle the blind and to please the fool.

My flowers are mine because They are everything I’ve done and haven’t got.