Plucked right from the roots of the earth.

Sowed seeds of "perfection" into the dirt.

Call that pretty, but I call that pity.

Why is it that weeds aren't beautiful.

Like how red and blue intermingle to make purple.

Yes, they change the enviornment to make it to accompany their needs.

If you ask me that sounds just like how we made our community.

Weeds are flowers to me, different and draining but still as important to our everyday. 

Oh, how I dream of the harmony weeds can generate. 

Generations of hate for something as innocent as a bee.

So, I'll plant their seeds, holding on desperately to their roots that cling deeper than the spirit attatched to my body.

Weeds are weeds with a purpose and determination to weed.

This poem is about: 
My community
Our world
Guide that inspired this poem: 


Need to talk?

If you ever need help or support, we trust CrisisTextline.org for people dealing with depression. Text HOME to 741741