It has come to the point
Where fear cannot 
Rule the day in this 
Atmosphere which I call life

Fantasy and dreamed fiction
No longer seem to hold me
From doing what is right
By the organ that gives life
To this shell which 
Houses my soul.

I have decided that
No longer will I love 
Out of pity, pain, or pride.
For those three emotions
Were birthed in 
a conception of sorrow 
fathered by the rogue
named Low Self Esteem.

Knowing now that I
A woman…
A beautiful, Good woman
Worthy of what is Holy
Is in need of something that 
Is rooted.
No longer do I want love 
In the form of bouquets.
For bouqueted love wilts
Loses it luster, hangs its head
And then dies.

I am in need of planted love.
Love that grows roots
When it is young.
Then when planted in good earth
And is nurtured and cared for
Will grow into something 
That can live as long 
As it is kept.

My mind is made up.
I am ready to move 
From the vase
And be planted.