Riotous Defiance
The poison has been applied again,
the blade has cut deep,
Each branch is gnarled;
my leaves are few,
my thorns grow large,
my flowers small,
So what if I am the weed?
The uncultured peasant,
the bastard flower.
Do you blame me for
Cursing at the rose, or
Whining about the Iris,
Shadowing above the pansy?
Should I not push my roots deep?
Show my face to the sun ?
Am I not of god too?
Yet the gardeners hand holds
no compassion, his eyes give no love,
His speeches of plucking
And cultivating is not
for inspiring the culled.
So piss on the gardener!
I‘ll Shove my roots deeper,
and pray for more thorns.
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