A Weed

Who am I?


I don't know 

(my past is a frenzied blur I hate to remember

the future a question I fear to ask)


All I know is I want the all

or a poetically decided nothing.

Because I want to be known-

with awed whispers following always

but still, I want to fade and whither like a flower after spring

(when in truth I'm a weed with delusions of grandeur)


And I don't know who or what I am,

but I know I've been on the top

(feeling desparate and lonely)

and been on the bottom 

(feeling forsaken and abandoned)

And know that the top is bad,

But the bottom is just as cutthroat 

and to stay in the middle is unheard of.


Because you must be great!

You must standout!

You must be special! and make the one percent!

And the bottom while hated is still acknowledged 

while mediocrity is unseen, 

forgotten in the crowd


I don't know what I dream to be.

I only wish to live spectacularly-

or die young tragically.

And I want to overcome those overwhelming odds

that were never even set against me.

I want to speak inspiringly,

to sing emotionally, 

to dance like the west wind moves me.


And poems and symphonies I wish to write

whirl in my brain to be plucked by another

more gifted than I at traversing the mind,

and skilled in committing idea to paper


For I am a poet

whose best works were lovingly composed

and quickly forgotten 

in the dead of night by a tired brain-


And I am the world

fighting to grow when everything has been found

With no more land to claim

or great wars to find reknown in-


Because I am the universe 

giant and unknown and dreadfully self-important 

and infuriating and inconceivable,

and alone-


And I am blade of grass

falling into that feared monotony

(because if all are special than so are none)


And foremost,

I am a weed 

jealously competing with the flowers

to be perfect-

But just pulled out

before my turn has ended.

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Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 


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