A plant is valued solely by its perfection

So, I begin to realize now I must be a weed.

You see the gardener tends to her blossoms and buds,

Controlling every aspect of their foundation.

Controlling nutrient saturation,

Watching for any roots of an undesirable seed.

Pruning the fruits that are deemed to be duds.

Carving out the impurities to reach satisfaction.

But, it seems to be a failed mission,

I must be a weed.

Despite no thorns drawing blood,

And bending at the wills of my tender- I am an imperfection.

No music can make me blossom

in a vibrancy so awesome.

So, alas I guess I must be like a weed, not a flower,

Growing up, and growing taller

No welter nor wither

No matter how bitter

And no matter the love the gardener has for her garden.