[ The dandelions grow. ]
The dandelions grow.
and I choke
in hopes to make them croak
and I tug.
I rip up, with a rush, the dirty lengthy roots
But every day another always shoots
I make them choke as I face their pure yellows
I make them drip white blood on my hands with strife
but no matter how hard I strangle
no matter how hard I tear
those beautiful wretched flowers crowd my life.