The Flower Field I tend to

Asking why doesn’t work...

My friends keep me sane, but love takes it away.

Why is everything a waiting game? Why wait to be told the same?

Why even play the game? Why does it always hurt the same?

Why not just punch and kill me like Game?

Why the long route? Why the slow pain?

Why am I always sure, just to be told the same?

Why am I always sure, just to be hunted the same?

No shadows, no ghouls, no ghosts, no goons—just the same feeling.

A faint pull, and they let go; the waters rush, and it’s always cold.

It's weird how deep you fall into that hole.

When you're most sure that fate won’t let go,.

4 flowers, 4 withered roses.

Does love work, or is it all just battered motions?

Why does the field smell so sweet, only to wither and leave me beat?

Why does the field look so beautiful just to burn so slowly like it was musical?

Why does the field even grow?

Why does it feel like its role is to hurt and scorn all the time I fostered its growth?

Why does the field boast the most beautiful flowers in the world?

Just to give me a single piece and leave me on the curb?

Just to give me a little taste of the beauty I don’t deserve.

Deserve? Do I even come close to being worthy of a field so evergreen?

Of a bounty so bountiful, of a world so colorful.

Guess I know now: “Its only colors” are red and black.

The color of flames and the end it takes.

I guess there’s always a new flower to be found, planted, loved, and burned the same...