• BLOOM •

My Environment Crumbles.

Almost As If Dust Surrounds Me.

And As I Seep Through The Pores Of My Own Existence.

I Wither Away In The Sun,

Wanting Only To Grow.

Planted In A Dead Garden,

That Is Flooded With Weeds.

The Toxicity, It Consumes Me.

Am I The Only One, Who Even Dares,

To Question For A Better Place?

And So It Seems, That I Am Doomed.

Unable To Roam,

Or Even Move.

Petrified With The Endless Question,

“Am I Ever To Bloom?”

So, When The Night Comes About,

And It’s Cold With Midnight Dew.

I Try To Imagine,

What My Petals Would Be.

Yellow, Blue, Orange, Green?

How Many Could There Be?

Four, Seven, Or Maybe Even Three.

Until The Haunting Realization Fills Me.

What If I Am Exactly Where I Am Supposed To Be?

With Sadistic Humor Of Likely Possibilities...

That I Am Actually Just Another Weed.