I am not a Daisy. I am a human.
Why I am not a Daisy?
I cannot sprout through concrete to meet the sun,
I cannot gather dew drops on my petals.
I don’t have petals, instead I have arms.

Arms can be called petals.
I don’t see why not.
My petals are scarred.
They hold the history of my hidden past.
Opposite of beautiful,
Opposite of innocent.

I went to my friend’s
and she’d say, “Daisy, Do you like Disneyland?”
“Yes I do. I haven’t been since I was five.”
She tells me that we’re going to go to Disneyland.
That we’re going to be five years old again.
So we go to Disneyland.

We ride the rides,
We watch the little boys and girls laugh and play,
They don’t seem to notice my petals.
They don’t seem to know of the twisted ways they can think.
They don’t seem to know that one day, they’ll have to pay taxes
and work a job.

Nothing is the same as when I was five years old.
Now I know.
It is no longer the happiest place on Earth,
because I am not. A Daisy.