Interloper

I'm a tangling weed, always have been. I am the blot on a fine painting, Beautiful people stampede when I blow my nose. I mess up the too tidy, stick out like a crow in a cage for a cannery, My Adams Apple can be seen from space. - okay slight exaggeration said for comic effect but it's a fact, in a lush meadow full of buttercups I would be the hairy weed crashing that bottom-land with my bottom. Some call my calling, my poetic bawling too weedy, weedy enough to be pulled up so as to let the lovely flowers bloom and spread, but I get my scrawny roots around such pretty words and squeeze.