These poems are flower crowns.

Sometimes beautiful and full of color,

The words soft and crushed,

Others small and scratchy, made from

The clover blossoms growing with the weeds.

Some nights my words are wilted from wear,

Like an overused excuse, an old tale,

Because I've said these words before.

"Flower crown" by Ophelia

I try to view each and every day As if I were looking at it Through Rose Colored Glasses.

I try to view things not as empty But as mostly more than full I try to see opportunites in all things I try to be open to the world.

I try to see the radiant sunshine poke through All the dark clouds in the sky. I try to hear the good in all things Even in a pack of lies.

I try to see all the hidden reasons Why we can't always get what we want That there are reasons for the why's in everything Even if things don't turn out in the ways that we thought.

I always strive to do better... Knowing that I someday I might possibly win.

I try to never give up hope Thinking that there could always be a day When my long awaited ship Might come sailing in.

I try to love all people Even those who are not kind They may be living with hurts of their own I try hard not to ever mind.

I always want to live my life With a pair of Rose Colored Glasses on my face They will make all the good things seem even better They will make all the bad things seem Okay.

"Rose Colored Glasses" by Christine A. Kysley

ALL in the golden afternoon Full leisurely we glide; For both our oars, with little skill, By little arms are plied, While little hands make vain pretence Our wanderings to guide. Ah, cruel Three! In such an hour, Beneath such dreamy weather, To beg a tale of breath too weak To stir the tiniest feather! Yet what can one poor voice avail Against three tongues together? Imperious Prima flashes forth Her edict ‘to begin it’ – In gentler tone Secunda hopes ‘There will be nonsense in it!’ – While Tertia interrupts the tale Not more than once a minute. Anon, to sudden silence won, In fancy they pursue The dream-child moving through a land Of wonders wild and new, In friendly chat with bird or beast – And half believe it true. And ever, as the story drained The wells of fancy dry, And faintly strove that weary one To put the subject by, “The rest next time -” “It is next time!” The happy voices cry. Thus grew the tale of Wonderland: Thus slowly, one by one, Its quaint events were hammered out – And now the tale is done, And home we steer, a merry crew, Beneath the setting sun. Alice! a childish story take, And with gentle hand Lay it were Childhood’s dreams are twined In Memory’s mystic band, Like pilgrim’s wither’d wreath of flowers Pluck’d in a far-off land.

"All in the Golden Afternoon" by Lewis Carroll