Poetic Paragraphs

Weeds

I am used to watching the garden full of flowers and wishing I was one of them.

It's my fault, I think. My fault that I took sprout in this infertile soil, lay down roots in the cracks of the pavement.

The dirt is dry, and I wasn't meant to stay here.

I can see the flowers in the distance, and they flourish in the light of sunshine praise, watered by comforting words. Success runs through their very veins, through their stems, letting them unfurl their leaves to reach for that sunshine that just gives and gives and gives.

And they grow, unleashed potential blooming into brilliant flowers of every color. They are special, unique, and that makes them worth it. Every moment of photosynthesis yields rewards, and they have so much to work with.

Water, sun, and soil. They are fed by success, praise fueling strokes of genius, potential standing the test of time and letting them flourish. They will forever reach for the sky and the sun will shine on their upturned faces.

And I wonder, watching them from a crack in the pavement, is that how it feels to be talented?

Is that how it feels to be gifted? To lift up your hands and receive, to reach out your arms and be helped up?

And I know they have to work for it, to push out their roots and unfurl their leaves before they can bloom, but at least praise will push them forwards, success filling their hearts. And if they fall, a gardener will prop them back up, make sure they stay on the right path, and feed them words of wisdom to keep them going, fertilizing their minds with new ideas and inspiration.

I watch all this from a distance and wonder how it all feels.

Because I live in the desert-like pavement, and there is no success here to feed me. The sunshine rays of praise are few and far between, and I have fallen over countless times, crushed into the ground, without anyone to help me back up.

It must be nice to be a flower, I think, wilting.

But that's okay. I'm okay. I've survived this far and I won't stop now, parched by jealousy, shriveling with envy.

I sat down in this soil and planted myself here, forcing my roots down into drought-cracked land, surviving off drips of success. I'm used to sucking the remnants of sunshine from shadows, replacing potential with persistence.

And I've been crushed so many times, fallen over when I was too young to have solid roots, self-confidence toppling. There was nobody to prop me back up. I had to stop a moment, try again, grow in straight so I could reach for the sun one day with the best of them.

But sometimes doubt sets in.

Maybe I'll never be a flower.

Maybe I'll never unfurl a brilliant blossom, reaching towards the sun, and hear the praise raining down on me.

Maybe I'm not enough, not after all I've tried and failed.

But I have learned to cope with success-parched soil and I've grown strong. I will keep plunging my roots deeper and deeper, searching for for that achievement, growing with weedy persistence towards the light.

Right now, I might not be pretty.

I might not be enough.

I might not look like the beautiful flowers, tender bulbs ready to blossom.

But I'm getting there, day by day, and I'll never need anyone to prop me up. I will carve my own success from this dry dirt, make my own praise with my own effort, forge my own potential from pure determination.

And if I put out a hard-won blossom, finally getting high enough to reach for the light, I will never take anything for granted.

Right now, right here in this infertile soil, I am a weed pretending to be a flower, and one day, I might just get good enough to pull it off.

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(Anyone who's tried to succeed at something where they didn't have talent or much support, I feel you. If it helps, I think the first metaphor I wrote was 'His love for her was as deep as a soy sauce dish' :P)

(Oh, and this kind of explains why my profile is some generic flower)