I am like a flower plucked from the ground before it blooms.
Lying on the ground in contrast to those around me who rise towards the sun.
An occasional rain keeps me alive, barely, but my colors pale more and more.
My bent and broken petals try to lift themselves but they feel very heavy.
Roots in the earth struggle to get me back on my feet.
But every time I start to get up something happens
Once I was trampled mercilessly,
In another occasion, the ants, they took the petals that cost me so much work to do
I get up enough to peek out and I'm ignored and rejected.
I'm small and less colorful, my few leaves are yellow.
I'm dying alive. I am the withered flower.
One day someone tore me away from my friend, the earth, out of sheer evil.
When you don't feel loved, you settle for being helpful.
In solitude, trapped under a piece of pottery.
Abandoned and pecked by birds.
I am the withered and battered flower.
Life threw me aside and like a voiceless flower I cried out,
But I was never listened to. Maybe if you'll ever sit next to me, And I've still got a voice left I'll tell you my sad story.
The story of the short live of a battered flower
Becca
