Withered Flower
They call me withered,
Because I no longer shine the way I did before,
Because my laughter is quieter now,
And my dreams don’t bloom on command.
Once, I was admired for my colors,
For the way I stood tall in the light of others’ praise.
But seasons changed,
And I learned how easily warmth can leave.
I bent, not because I was weak,
But because carrying hope every day is heavy.
My silence is not emptiness
It is a place where survival learned to breathe.
I am not dead, only different,
Not broken, only tired of pretending.
Even without petals or applause,
I remain—rooted in becoming.
They may miss what I used to be,
But I am learning to value what I am now
A withered flower,
Still alive, still growing—just unseen.
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𝖨𝗍'𝗌 𝗇𝗈𝗍 𝗃𝗎𝗌𝗍 𝖺𝖻𝗈𝗎𝗍 𝖿𝗅𝗈𝗐𝖾𝗋 𝖻𝗍𝗐...
