The Weed

a short poem about identity

The Weed

Why must I be the weed?
Can’t I be fed and watered?
Trimmed nicely and facing the sun.
Nurtured like I mattered.

Some are stepping on me.
Pulling at my tatters.
Trying to snatch my root.
My seeds only scatter.

What makes rose not the weed?
She even has a thorn.
Could be her color bright?
Or was she firstly born?

No one sees my beauty.
I sit drab in dour green.
A little ratty edge.
I’m hopeful kindly seen.

No dream for the future.
Not from here anyway.
Grasp tightly the corner.
Survive another day.