You celebrated me when I was a flower, but you denied my roots. When autumn came, you did not know what to do about me. You could only understand the surface, not the barnacled fabric in the soil. Like an empty glass of water, you drained your feelings and let your eyes close. What you do not see is the mud I am. You want glitter and shine. You want transparency. You will not acknowledge the depth I can offer. You hollered in glee when I was shallow. But you were confused with how to treat me when I was depth.
We are all like that. Truth is bothersome. It lacks plastic. We are afraid. Always afraid.
Pick up the umbrella and cover the head. Protect the surface from the drops of reality.