To dance.

Not sure of the antedote.
Garish and calm all in one, we breathe silently.
This little plant just isn't the place for you,
you need a spark while I need water and sunlight,
you are the flint to an obese kid's zippo. The rain isn't your friend
and yet we bend all the rules.
You let yourself drown while my small plant becomes a firework.
The peace and quiet feels adequate when I'm burning out and
becoming nothing to a smoking sky.
This little plant isn't the place for you
and I'm quite happy rising, growing, glowing, breathing here.