You made me write this:

Maybe the flower wanted to be plucked,

(Maybe it wished that it could smoke and

pay Philip Morris it’s dues for separation from society and life in general.

Would it be worth it to escape the cream-colored hue and life of Daoism being a flower requires

escape to existentialism, dull hedonism and real living

if that’s what you can call it, this cycle of anger and disappointment,

stealing from your friends, loathing, worthlessness, the eternal soul?)

and it’s in a better place now.

Can you tell me if it's related?

There's something about this poem that brings tears to my eyes. It leaves a lasting impression on me because it reminds me of the loss of hope. Take care.

this is beautiful