i picked up my pen, black ink, like blood,
tracing intimate thoughts into the back of my fist,
the soil watered with the tears of my failures,
the cold air making the ground shake,
the feeling of doubt, i can't get out of bed, i won't get out of bed,
they don't want me to get out of bed, want me to sleep forever, ever,
when does it end, do i work more, do i give up now,
do i give in to the cold air, do i let my ground shake,
the start of a tree, roots, grasping dearly to the soil, not letting go,
taking its time to sprout, slowly, gently, but it does, it does,
sharp winds take hold of itself pulling at it gently,
the anxiety takes over, do i stay and fight or do i run for my life,
the sprout of something beautiful, expressing itself, feeling okay,
a bright purple flower, one unlike any others, dancing in the wind,
storms come and attempt to break its bond with the ground,
it gives in, once maybe twice, but stays up, stays strong,
that bright purple flower, unlike any others, feeling okay, is me.
-lilac