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Poem

When growing a flower there’s a few things you need,
Water and sunlight and room for the leaves.
If you tend to your flower with warmth and with care,
It will one day sit tall with assured debonair.
But if someone plunges their hand and plucks its root,
It will shrivel up and perish under their unthinking brute.
Their one little tug on its fragile, soft stem,
Will tarnish your hard work with a righteous condemn.
But what’s more than your hard work gone to waste,
Is that they were the architect of your own distaste.
You dreamed and you wished to see your little plant grow,
But someone took their fingers and dug out its soul.
In one fell swoop of their unthinking mind,
Their gratification took hold of your flowers intertwined vines.
Their compulsion to see that patch of dirt bare,
Has left you reeling and lonely, filled with despair.
How did your flower,
So small and so fair,
End up lying shriveled and wilting in the hor summer air? 
It came to be something to rip out and then toss back into the dirt,
Only to be a second of entertainment for an act in its lack of meaning, overt.
You watered it and basked it in light,
And it got torn from the grass, too helpless to fight.
For how can a flower fight against a man,
Who decides he can rip it from its life before it even began.

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