I do it over and over again
Open up like a flower
Ready to be picked
My scent always stronger than
My last bloom

I think, I must be left
To fade
To fold over
But there is always another
Who passes the garden of me

With fresh looks and words
My Gardener waters me
I shed bruised petals, torn leaves
And I bloom for the next, brilliantly

What honey bee had been and gone
Another takes my heart
His unique attention produces a
Painful sting

I am a wild flower
I do not fail to bloom
For every sting that swells my flesh
Makes vivid petals grow

That is amazing.

And very true for me right now, suffering from a broken heart after a mere two weeks (!)

I went into it so sick of relationships, just wanting a friend. But at least now I know I can still feel.

i am the same as you! there is the lesson;-)

nice write

Wow, what compassionate, reverent throws! This is One piece of work, golden. I love this!

Now, as for, " . . . I do it over and over again
Open up like a flower
Ready to be picked " - I'd surely be pickin' ye. You open up, I'll pick. Promise!!

Very, very nice word play, golden. Let it be known that I have now read and do duly subscribe to this soft flowing - off the tongue ' honey ', sweet experience. I drink of thee.

tommy boy / Ireland / July, 2013.

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I really do love your work

perfect

Watering can at the ready.

Dear Jez,
I am thirsty