His words were lies,
stories of emotions.
Stories oh, so common.
words continuously spoken.

It wasn't love,
and it wasn't neautral.
But i was still the daisy,
amongst a field of others.

The others all thrived,
whilst my leaves were shriveled.
He had a favourite daisy,
one he wished to pick.

The one a few rows over,
the one the opposite of me.
A daisy lucky to have him,
for thet flower he would sin.

His flower to love forever,
no matter how much I wished it was me.