We are like weeds -
like painted clovers
who grow anxious
at the sight of
lovers and little girls
with petals in their hair,
like daisies stepped on
by rubber soles and padded heels
waiting patiently
while bees flock to tulips instead,
like muted dandelions
plucked from the roots
and tossed aside with
barren heads and broken stems
mourning for their
scattered leaves,
like ivy and creeping thistle
eyes shut and whispering,
whimpering to themselves
a solemn hymn
praying to be left alone
for now.