I am lost in my own germination. I miss the innocence of adolescence, I miss the days of being a seed.
Nostalgia stemming from maltreatment, roots of disdain running deeper and deeper as they absorb the negativity of my surroundings.
The sadistic nature of being has instilled terror in my heart, a terror of the futureβ for Iβm not ready for my contempt of existence to flower.
I preferred being a seed.
As I blossom, I grow consumed by feelings of self-doubt, tears falling, like petals in the springtime, Will I survive the winter?
I preferred being a seed.
The strong winds of life rip me up by the roots. I am slowly wilting and withering away as days pass, unaware of when I will be trampled underfoot.
I remember the days of being a seed. For remaining a seed would have been easier than blossoming in a world slowly and aggressively plucking my petals.