An aesthetic little speckle of weeds,
trivial untamed flowers continue to grow
despite the human genocide against them,
only to try and touch the sun
and be beautiful in their own way.

Oh, how easy it is too feel like a weed;
Unloved and trampled,
The delicate petals slowly and mercilessly crushed,
Feeling the loss of beauty,
Feeling the loss of oneself.

The defensive thorns develop over time and
As a protective force
to prevent strangers from wandering too close.

The beautiful little wild flowers inevitably
grow into an ugly patch of weeds,
twisted and bent over, chaotically spiraling out of control
striking out at anyone who dares to drift over
in a quick motion along with the wind,
protecting the remains of the soul,
which shattered long ago.

The defenses may have been too strong this time
and may have made a mistake,
stuck out in fear
at the empathetic gardener
who has been slowly helping the pretty flowers grow
and wiping away the dew drop tears…