A bunch of bluebells on a hill
Overlooks me where I walk
Listening to the birds and wind
As they chirp, tweet, squawk, and talk.

I fear that they once were daisies,
But I have made them depressed.
They’d curdle, were they buttercups;
Roses would bleed like my chest.

But no matter what breed they were,
They’ve taken part of my pain.
I once thought flowers were petty,
But ’tis I, not them, who’s vain.