I feel trapped.

Without any room to grow.

All the flowers around me are cut short,

shoved into buckets,

and stuffed into a cooler with artificial lights.

With artificial care.

 

Right now, I am a sprig of stock or snapdragon.

Right now, I am a gerbera daisy.

And sometimes,

I am a ranunculus, easily wilted.

 

People around me continue to cut me down,

use me for what they need,

then throw me away.

 

They do it in a way that is subtle.

They think I won’t notice.

But I do.

I always do.

Almost as if they cut part of me off like a flower stem.

 

I long to be an Indian paintbrush.

Growing bright, spreading their roots as wide as they can.

Getting the nutrients and care they need from the Earth.

That is who I am.

I just have to get back there.

Away from the loud voices that wilt my spirit,

away from the snide remarks that cut me with clippers, 

and away from the false soil that stunts growth.

 

I am trying to get there.

To grow. 

To become the Indian paintbrush. 

 

Although discouragement is easy to come by,

and fed to you from hands of those that care more about themselves, 

I will rise above.

 

I will become the carnations that last for weeks,

the lavender that lasts for months, 

and soon the wildflower that is free from toxicities,

And artificial care.

 

I will be valued.

My roots will grow to lengths they haven’t yet before,

and relief will fill my lungs with the wind.  

 

The cuts will cease to exist. 

I will relax in the comfort of those around that truly love,

and I will again grow with the brightness, 

and strength,

of the Indian paintbrush.