There on the table next to my vanity
Sits an omen to one’s fragile sanity
In a moment or a fit of inspiration
Great happiness and exhilaration
Each an elated precious bloom
I purchased flowers for my room

Who knew the vase I carefully selected
Clear clean glass never neglected
Over time would transform to a tomb
Oh how I resent the flowers in my room

A troubled mix of baby's breath and sage
Exhausted plumes that have foully aged
Disoriented beauties practically slaughtered
Limp and broken amongst the sour water
Reminiscent of a swamp its turned a greenish gray
And the petals infected with wretched decay
Once lively young and new
Now they perish rotting in my room

I examine the vase full of sickening fossils
Think about the patterns that lead to this brothel
Here as I reflect its all too apparent
My passion is rarely ever coherent
Days of draining consecutive ups or downs
Where I either notice the sunshine or distinctive frowns
Days where I can hear my heart pounding out of my chest
Where I stay up late and fight the human need to rest
Days I forget of a faith to exhume
Where I purchase flowers to adorn my room

I stare at the floral tragedy embarrassed of its presence
Stuck in an odd limbo of self importance and irreverence
Disorganized, dissatisfied under a cloud of constant crisis
I look to the sky and ponder why is it like this
An ever heightened sense of doom
Clings to me like the stench of rotting flowers in my room