Weeds

What do you do when your house doesn’t feel like home?

What do you do when you don’t connect with your family?

You sit stranded on your own little island pretending it’s alright.

But it isn’t.

You wander around looking for some consistency, but you can’t find anywhere to pant yourself. All of the plots are full from the tangling and intertwining roots from others’ family trees.

You aren’t a flower.

You’re a weed

Trying so hard to make home with the other vegetation that you latch onto their needs and you suck suck suck them dry.

People hate you and try to pull you from the ground but they don’t understand. You’ve been deprived for so long that you’re starving.

You’re dying and the other plants can spare a little so you can survive.

Can’t they stand a little discomfort?

You’re scared, you want the shade from another family tree, but no elm, maple or pine is willing to give it to you

and why the hell do you think you deserve it? Go back to your own garden!

Not in my backyard.

So you, the starved little sprout travel miles without what you need back to your garden to find the soil rocky, to see that the vegetation died. The water pot shattered and you

You lay your tired roots on the infertile ground and wait

Until the sun dries you up

This poem is about: 
Me
My family

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