The Story of the Daisy and the Daffodil

Lonely. The Lonely is something that whispers to me, soon I found it was my very heart. I can't close my eyes; I can't wish it all away, because the lonely will be there. 

"Who can save me?!" I cry,

 and the Lonely whispers back, "No one."

Because the Lonely can whisper. When you speak with so much volume, so loud, you can whisper; a whisper intensifies the sound because you know it'll corrupt your entire being. It's looming. It's desperate because it knows, it'll take over you.

"The Lonely that lingers,

 that eats me whole"

I cry so loud because I know I can't speak. The powers not so awfully distributed all the time. 

I can make snipes that hurt people; that defend; that protect; cherish. With perfect aim and delivery. The Lonely's always crying. That's why so many people fear and sweat for no reason, why we starve, why we turn cold!

Emotions talk, much more than sense. They're the only sense that matters. But let's think scientifically; "irrevocably". I've said that before.

I'm not asking who can save me because no one has, but cause no one has touched that shadow of me. And their are loved ones at my side who can't understand my struggling, but not that shadow, they don't know that shadow. To love something so much, it must be loved. When the plant quits feeding itself. Lonely rose in with the rise of my love. Like a lover of chemistry or art and there were no other lovers of chemistry or art in my batch. It wasn't for a lack of brightness. The Story of the Daisy and the Daffodil:

There was a field of daffodils and by the field across one lane, through the road, the wind blew one seed and that seed landed and grew. As she reached the peak of her maturity, she looked around sorrowful for she loved earth. She looked around because it was lonely, and no a piece of grass had called to her atop the road. It was lonely because as she grew taller, she could see the field of daffodils, what it could have been, but she never thought what could've so easily been because she felt the longing, and the want, and she saw the receiving. But it wasn't to her. It wasn't her. Paradoxical. The shock of bewildering enrapturement, desire. So that daffodil grew a little more yet, she saw that the other daffodils were loved and cherished and connected, she saw that she had come from a rough start, she saw that she was still greeting, and said, "But aren't I special?"

The point of the story is that paradox. Yes and No. She is special because she survived her circumstance, but she is not special just because her circumstance. She can't just expect things because of her circumstance good or bad. The world had taught her to be expectant of company; envious of it! The world was poisoning her like a weed. But she knew, from youths clarity and vision, that flowers deserve to be loved, they deserve company, they deserve to be treated right--they should be treated right. But with youths clarity, she lost sight of the fact it wasn't because she deserved it, she should've gotten it, but it wasn't cause she deserved it, but because she would earn it. 

I can't wish for daffodils; I can't wish it all away. Cause then there is only the lonely as fear. I have to earn it. The shadow will be lit as I reach the opening of the world, as I earn it. This love will be loved as I grow myself.

Author's Note

Comments are more than welcome; your experience, thoughts on my thoughts--very appreciated!