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Description
'It's a gift'
They told me,
Yet how shortly it lasted.
It did not take an obscene amount of years for it to become transformed and bedraggled, faded beyond it's pale recognition, no, it only took two or three for it to wane and flux out of being. Of course that's when we really want it, when we wish we hadn't flaunted it so carelessly in those indignant, naive, and helpless days. Helpless because we can do naught in the wake of our gift but wait for it to flourish. Yet instead it shrivels and dries out, keeling over at the prospect of what it could have been. It would be pointless to water it now, now when want nothing more than to rip off the petals and ask why it's faded and dimmed as we tear them apart. Yet, of course, it cannot answer us. It sits there, content, a look of smug defeat hanging carelessly on it's handsome face, as though saying 'I told you so.' It's inflicting a bitter remorse in our hearts for offenses we cannot remember pursuing. So we step back with the resignation of this gift hanging about our necks like a noose, constricting us by the mere limp quality of it's stature. Each thread is another 'will be' 'could be 'should be' tied around our necks with one desperate, simple, terribly vain 'want to be'. Now everyone is content, due to these shackles that tie us in with the rest of the bleeding, corrupt, lying world. There are those who'll lie through their secretly satisfied teeth, only to be followed by those who wrench down on your noose, leaving a loathsome weight behind, that reminds you, by the sting of the rope on your skin and the constant burden bearing down on your spine, that your gift is gone. Transcending and peeling away, faded and falling apart by it's prostrate seams, you accept; through the torment you think you see, you know you see, the others willfully pushing upon you with their giddy, knowing smirks, that your gift has become void. Verily you feel to be reflected as such; your life is null, your heart is void, your purpose depreciated beyond all else.
'It's a gift'
They told me,
'It's a curse'
I answered.

Description
'It's a gift'
They told me,
Yet how shortly it lasted.
It did not take an obscene amount of years for it to become transformed and bedraggled, faded beyond it's pale recognition, no, it only took two or three for it to wane and flux out of being. Of course that's when we really want it, when we wish we hadn't flaunted it so carelessly in those indignant, naive, and helpless days. Helpless because we can do naught in the wake of our gift but wait for it to flourish. Yet instead it shrivels and dries out, keeling over at the prospect of what it could have been. It would be pointless to water it now, now when want nothing more than to rip off the petals and ask why it's faded and dimmed as we tear them apart. Yet, of course, it cannot answer us. It sits there, content, a look of smug defeat hanging carelessly on it's handsome face, as though saying 'I told you so.' It's inflicting a bitter remorse in our hearts for offenses we cannot remember pursuing. So we step back with the resignation of this gift hanging about our necks like a noose, constricting us by the mere limp quality of it's stature. Each thread is another 'will be' 'could be 'should be' tied around our necks with one desperate, simple, terribly vain 'want to be'. Now everyone is content, due to these shackles that tie us in with the rest of the bleeding, corrupt, lying world. There are those who'll lie through their secretly satisfied teeth, only to be followed by those who wrench down on your noose, leaving a loathsome weight behind, that reminds you, by the sting of the rope on your skin and the constant burden bearing down on your spine, that your gift is gone. Transcending and peeling away, faded and falling apart by it's prostrate seams, you accept; through the torment you think you see, you know you see, the others willfully pushing upon you with their giddy, knowing smirks, that your gift has become void. Verily you feel to be reflected as such; your life is null, your heart is void, your purpose depreciated beyond all else.
'It's a gift'
They told me,
'It's a curse'
I answered.