The petals started clogging my throat
and if I tried I could pluck you a full bouquet of love
that grows by my heart's secret garden moat.

But I can't tell you of my wonder for you for fear
that you will find it horribly horrific and whorish
instead of holding my romantic tendencies dear.

The petals of love become full grown roses
I'm loving you so much more by the day
but still I won't confess so they go unnoticed.

My daydreams turn to a nightmare as roses turn to thorns
because day by day I see my love deflected
so day by day from the inside out I'm torn.

With the flowers I'm coughing out comes wicked blood
still you don't realize I'm dying and instead of confessing
I continue to hide my unspoken, utterly heartbroken love.

Don't pluck me when I'm dying and don't speak your love now
because it's too late for me and therefore for us
and I don't want my death to cause your story's curtain to fall down.

—•—

. . .ruisgreasyhair know why I wrote this
Probably.

Al, if you don't, I'ma be disappointed..