Half Alive

Inevitably I'm a mess;
with my emotions all strewn about,
like petals meticulously plucked from their stem
for silly reasons,
and I know not how to mend

I use to believe in the poems I wrote;
carefully planting impetuous words about those nouns
who compelled me to act irrationally,

but those stingy verbs
kept sprouting like weeds with no purpose,
compelling thy hands to ache
so why
..........why
................why must I still write,
when all my flowers have lost their tenuity?