Death of Self, or Simply Insanity?

Death of Self, or Simply Insanity?

A rose,
A symbol of
Everything that is romantic.

This beautiful thing of nature.
Catching everyone’s eye,
Distracting,
Excavating,
Breath-taking.
Such a scent of rose is the memory of romance
Itself.

But, as winter sets in,
The process of decomposition begins,
Death spreads from the inside out.
Starting with the crumpling of petals edges,
Leaves falling to the ground,
Blown away into the wind.
Spreading to the center,
The flower losing life,
Begins to droop.
Spreading to the stem,
Letting out a stench,
An odor of death,
Pain,
And remorse.
Spreading even to the water surrounding,
Which is now opaque,
Due to excessive bleeding.
The spreading continues,
Until finally,
The whole flower itself is infected,
Dead to the world around it,
Closed,
Shriveled.
All meaning of life lost,
No longer a flower,
But a measly plant.

Just watching this process take place,
Experiencing it,
Can lead one to suicide.
Just knowing of such a horrible thing,
Can lead to an illness.

An illness of mind,
Of emotion,
Of being.

An illness that leads to a state of Confusion,
Wounded self-worth,
Self-abuse.
A state of insanity.

This insanity is so deep,
No one can help you.
No one can set you free of its grasp,
Except yourself.

Only you can learn to accept it
And move on.
Only you can embrace this pain,
Store it in a locked box,
And strengthen yourself,
Learn from it.

But, there is always one thing to remember.
You are never alone.
There are always others,
The smile of the sun in the sky,
The sigh of the wind,
The singing of the birds,
The comfort of the other roses down the row.
All there to lend an open ear,
To whisper words of advice,
Anything,
To keep that death
From spreading.