My expectations of love blossomed from movies and books.
However, the seeds of expectations watered by perfect fairytale stories were subsequently drowned by reality.
Oh, what a cruel thing reality is.
Maybe I’m just saying this because I’m bitter.
A wilting flower amongst a garden of roses.
I wonder if I’m more of a dandelion than a rose.
Soft lips whisper secret desires- but always of other girls they admire.
They make a wish, and I drift away.
a weed that never has the chance to blossom into a flower.
The stepping stone to a happily ever after that isn’t mine.
Petals tear away, she loves me, she loves me not.
But she’s not me.
Always the bridesmaid, but never the bride.
Maybe if I was as colorful as a chrysanthemum, or as exotic as a tiger lily…
but people rarely see the beauty in the common.
It’s the prettiest flowers that are always picked first.
I’m not some eye-catching bouquet.
my charms lay not on the outside but flower quietly out of sight.
In a shallow world who will look beyond?
The plants start to wither as the wind grows cold.
I hope when spring flourishes once more, It may finally be my chance to blossom.