We are the field of flowers. Society, the weeds.
They have an unhealthy obsession with the flowers.
Prickly vines, ripping open the silk petals.
The teardrops dripping to the filthy dirt, slowly sinking further.
Flowers have this dry chalky taste from being smothered by the ground.
The bitter sweet sound from being simply buried.
Weeds want to smell the absence of breath in the stems.
The Plastics ruling their high school kingdom.
Decorated vines. Vultures, waiting for an innocent death.
Kicking us when we are already down.
More and more billboards killing little girls.
“Sometimes you are putting more into it than you could ever get back out.”
The silent thunder of hatred.
The fake love shown by the weeds.
The plastics shrinking everyone to the size of flowers,
So they can tear them from their roots and put them in their hair.
Quiet Girl hiding away, terrified of peoples opinions.
Eventually Quiet Girl will be worn as an accessory in the Plastics hair.
The blind lightning of realness.
“You are like the missing word in sentence, pointless.”
The flowers scream. The weeds are too strong.
Little girls dirty fingernails scrambling to dig up their busted petals.