Wilted Flower

At twenty-one years of age, I'm wilting like a dying flower,
The love that once blossomed in my life, is beginning to turn my life sour.

In a field of flowers, you choose to pick the best,
You chose to pick me from all the rest.

Then the flower starts wilting and you get concerned,
For it was this rose I once desired and this rose I once yearned.

You replace the flower once it appears to die,
Don't replace me yet, I'm still alive it cries.

You judge everything on it's appearance,
As looks begin to fade you lose your perseverance.

Just as one stops admiring the beauty of a wilted rose,
He feels unattracted to me for the same reason I suppose.