I owed you one.

If i was beautiful,
like cherries and their blossoms, would
it matter? Not much belongs
inside these arms. Not much.
But yet, can't we stop reaching for something
other than our occupation?
So fulfilling in vivid essence.
There is a plant in her living room
that once wilted,
but grew upwards again.
She had given up on the sun.
Became a believer.
What could be the word for trying so
hard you would
forgive your mistakes?
Monopathic?
Telesition?
Renaissance belongs
in books and lectures.
New starts belong
in fairy tales and pop culture.
Not me.
Not here.
Not without blood,
spilled across
an imagination so ignorant
it couldn't understand
lessons learned.
But what is it? A poem?
pardon me for the attempt.