My Little Sunflower

When I was eighteen, I dreamed of mansions filled with beauty queens.

I had fantasies of fame and fortune in a rich, swirling vortex. Guess you can't trust an undeveloped prefrontal cortex.

Now I'm in the thick of twenty eight & coming to these realisations embarrassingly late -

happiness is not the cold gun of overbearing ambition,

poking and prodding inside a mental prison.

I'm not asking for grand gestures, god knows I don't want empty air.

I want laughter and the 'I can take you through the plan again, if that's what comforts you' kind of care.

This imaginary world might have shrunk from those dreams of the past,

but my favourite little sunflower in the soil holds steadfast.

It can dance in the storms without breaking the stem, and when it threatens to sleep I know that it will flower again.

My little sunflower turns to the sun to smile -

in the morning, I bring it coffee. In the night, chamomile.