Growing up
the growing weed never stops
until we cut it down,
and when we do
we’ve controlled its fate
becoming too much of an optimist.
is growing flowers too late?
trying so hard
to make it work our way
when we can’t it’s such a pity.
we stereotype
something beautiful outside.
is there room to make it pretty?
but when it grows
there were parasites
but how was i to know?
that it and others
would eventually show
that they could not grow up.
This poem is about:
Me
Our world