(A response poem to Neil Aranda's "Weeds")

I was once a plant, a kind of my own
Oh, a plant that was not eagerly sown
And from that infertile soil, I have grown
Like a **** in wilderness, just unknown.

My ancestors treat me like I'm nothing
Nobody cares if I have done something
But still I don't want to stop believing
Persist to live through hoping and dreaming.

And then they call me as a wild flower
Condemn me like I'm a serial killer
They provoke each other as believer
Each one must be an active decrier.

But one day, my kind will be recognized
As that one good plant, a kind which is nice
From this barren land, I promise, I'll rise
And I'll be that strong, one day I'll be wise...