I am.

I am the soft, pink petals of a garden rose.
I wonder why it is I cannot fly.
I hear discouragement from inside myself.
I see the chances I never took.
I want to be untameable-wild and free.

I am the soft, pink petals of a garden rose.
I pretend that I am luxurious and desired.
I am the tattered, autumn sweater with missing buttons.
I feel that perhaps I am too clichè.
I worry that I will soon be forgotten.

I am the soft, pink petals of a garden rose.
I am the red-stained tongue after a popsicle.
I understand that everything has beauty.
I dream of a person who will love me.
I hope, but hope is lost.

I am the soft, pink petals of a garden rose.