My Dad Told Me I'm My Own Person
My flower wanted to be his own plant,
But he would not be had he not been planted.
My flower would get frustrated by the realisation that he was in the process of blossoming —
He would need someone to hold the hose over him when the clouds had prioritised another,
Prioritised them so much that they
Seemed like salty sea.
That is, when he is finally accompanied by the others,
Outside on the big wide soil.
For the time being, he resides in his pot,
Like a baby in their cot,
Using it as comfort,
Yet crying out to leave.
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