Poetry

Call Me Grass

Do not call me flower,
For I am stronger 
Than their delicate petals.

Even the rose,
With blood red blooms,
And thorny stems,
Is easily crushed
In brutish hands.

No. Call me grass.
For grass may be burnt,
And grass may be frozen,
Grass may be trampled,
And grass may be torn, 
But still it grows.  
Breaking, unapologetic, through cracks in concrete.

So do not call me flower, 
Delicate and sweet.
Call me grass,
For I will keep growing, always, 
In spite of you. 

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