Weed

Two fingers,
Grab the stalk around it's base.
Initially delicate, they firm.
Pulling up the new roots whole,
From the softened soil.
Immediately tossed to the side to eventually wither.
The crunch of dirt under step, trail off into silence.
-----
I swear I'm trying.
I'm just getting nowhere.

I promise I'm attempting.
I just seem to be proudly regressing.

Proud is too strong of an inaccurate word.
More so, that i am reminded of a place all too familiar.

Comfortable in complete discomfort.
Ah yes, there i am.
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No different from the rest of the hatchlings.
Larger and extended leaves.
To join the Sun and catch the breeze.
If they didn't want to be choked, they should evolve accordingly.
Save them, and instead pluck this vibrant weed.

It's just dandy, lying on the ground, becoming crisp.
Even then, an eye for beauty would have to lift so delicate.
Crushed leaves in a curious palm.
-----
What i observe of others and then pertain myself.
Is the definition of confusion.
Watch me spin.
Pirouette within.

I can outmatch, outlast, outcast, all these inferiors.
Yet once again the puzzle is eluding.
I'm told so much while i sit on the curb by myself.

Barefoot in the gutter.
-----
If i were to bloom...
If i were to bloom you'd guard your hand.
Embodied sacred thistle.

Water in my eyes.
Fire in my chest.
Air in my lungs.
Smoke on my breath.

Fingers in my dirt.
Knees to the rock.
Trying to quell the empowered liberty of being pissed off.

Pay no mind to the small stone in my sock.
I actually appreciate it's discomfort.
I enjoy that it is there on my travels.

I embody the thistle.
I cannot put it clearer.
I cannot understand it better.
Soul bloom,
And i embody the thistle.