She, A Rose

She

A hesitant rose

Ignored in a crack of the courtyard

Among a sea of blooming

Daffodils, lilies, and tulips.

 

She

Who would wait there,

Desperately trying to cover her thorns

And conceal her luminous face in the shadows,

Because she truly believed

All the other flowers had something

Better

 

She,

Who relishes the experience

Of gaining new compliments

From others,

Only to transpire them

Later in a

Moment of doubt,

And wonders where exactly her

Happiness went.

 

She

Who had crumpled leaves,

Weather-battered petals,

Suppressed buds,

And learned to grow

The way people expected her to grow,

Because it was easier that way,

Because they liked her more that way,

And the poor rose was a people-pleaser.

 

She

Who longed for a true friend

A nurturer

But bristled up whenever

Anyone got too close,

And was stepped on

Whenever she got too close to anyone.

But she feels she deserves it.

Because she’s frail

And has naive hopes

And unrealistic standards.

 

She

Who knows not the boundaries

To which only she is able to stretch,

So she looks around

And compares

Her space, her corner,

Her thorns, her width,

Her petals, her everything

To everyone else.

And she knows better,

But she cannot stop;

It’s her addiction.

And it kills her slowly.

 

She

Who is nervous

Of getting blocked,

Or clipped,

Or uprooted from her

Comfortable nest

And forced to relocate

Into a place of strangers.

But she did just that

When God grew impatient

And planted her in a spot

She could reach the light directly

Yet she stumbled

Over her own wad of greenery

And refused to change her ways

And sunk into herself

A half-opened bud, fully

Lazed with maroon potential

Of which she has no idea

What to do with

Because everyone agrees

It's time for her to abandon

Her dependent ways.

 

She,

Who reaches for the sun

But retracts

To allow others to get it,

And is disappointed

When she is not thanked,

Or appreciated,

Or noticed,

And fades a little bit more.

Yet she brushes it off

Much like a raindrop

And waits patiently for that

Ray of salvation

To wake the cold,

Feeble, shivering

Rose that she has become,

Because the most beautiful things

Are overlooked,

And beautiful things

Don’t ask for attention.

They are not supposed to.

 

She

Who is still unable to

Believe the fact

That, just maybe,

She is a joy to those who

Do notice her, and

She

Who is still unable to

Accept the fact

That, just maybe, she

Doesn't need anyone

Invading her leaves,

Or tugging her petals,

Or telling her that

Certain aspects of her are

Less than the best,

Because

She knows,

And she worries over it

And she feels tired of being

Judged

When, in fact, it’s her who is

The main culprit.

But she’s beautiful,

Messy,

Because she isn't supposed to

Be perfect.

And she shouldn't ever allow

Any person to ruin

Her organic purity

Because she feels she needs

A supporting branch,

When she can provide her own

On any day she’s willing.

And she,

Who is so unsure

Of where and

Of which way she should grow,

Does not yet notice the fact

That whenever she is tired

Of trying to fit in,

She can

Grow unrestricted,

Free, pruned no more to

Fit the standards of society

And the obstructed,

Limited

Definition of beauty

And success

In biased eyes.

She,

Who now realizes

She can

Either grow toward the sunlight,

Free from the dark corner

She catches herself in

Sometimes,

Or stay tucked away

And wither slowly

From exhaustion

And fatigue, and

Be no more.

She, who believes 

One day, 

She'll bloom.

Author's Note

Toggles between past and present tense a bit.