La Vie En Weed

This was written in 8th grade and its so cheesy ok but our length limit was 2 pages (double-spaced) and that's why it's ridiculously short. I just wanted to post something, and in the meantime I'm working on the first chapter of my IwaOi fanfic, which should be up hopefully by May 5th. So until then, enjoy this load of crap ❤️

She danced. She swayed. She bloomed, withered, and bloomed once more. These were
the things she naturally knew to do from the moment she first felt the sunshine on her petals, as did the other flowers in the garden, which spent their days conversing with one another. However, no other flower had ever felt the need to converse with her, for she was what they described as a weed. There she sat, one of a kind, bordered by clusters of others who all possessed the sense of security that accompanies being surrounded by those the same as you; she would never feel that sense of security. All she could do was dance, sway, bloom and wither, then bloom again.
One day, the wind was blowing east, pushing her towards the section of the garden where the Tulips stood, lanky and gay as can be. Her stem was a bit short, so she decided to stretch as high as she could and blend in with those around her.
"Just what are you trying to do?" asked the Tulips in unison, "You are too petite to blend in with us, yes, one inch too small. We are lanky, you see. A Tulip is what you will never be."
The weed, slightly discouraged but not quite disheartened, then let herself move with the wind as it blustered north, towards the section of the garden where the Roses were mounted, brilliant red and fierce.
"Just who are you trying to be?" sang the Roses in unison, "You are too bright to blend in with us, yes, a color much too bright. We are a brilliant red, you see. A Rose is what you will never be."
Once again slightly dispirited, but not quite ready to rest, the weed felt the breeze nudge her south, towards the section of the garden where the Chrysanthemums were perched, their petals layered and spread wide. The weed snuggled into the crowd, and opened her petals as wide as she possibly could.
The Chrysanthemums said nothing. They only laughed, every last one of them. Five snickered, and began to nudge the weed further and further away from their section of the garden. They swung their bodies on their stems and whacked the weed until almost all of her petals had fallen off, and were crumpled on the soil. Completely dejected, the weed began to droop and wilt. She would never find a cluster of flowers that would be willing to converse, or even describe her as a flower at all. That night, the usual silence of the garden that accompanied the moonlight was now replaced by her weeping.
However, the next morning began a very important day. 'Twas Mothers' Day, and the small boy who lived alone with his mother on the farm next to the garden would mosey outside and pick the fiercest, lankiest, and widest flower of all to place in a pot of rich soil and bestow to her. The Tulips, the Roses, and the Chrysanthemums all waited patiently for the boy's eyes to fall upon their section of the garden, but they never left one place: upon the weed. He bounded over, full pot in hand, and gently caressed her.
"Wow, a Dandelion, my favorite flower!" he exclaimed.
The weed's weeping came to an abrupt stop. Had he called her a flower? Had someone finally recognized this weed, no, this Dandelion, as a flower? This thought clouded her mind as the child dug his plump hands into the soil and heaved, lifting the Dandelion, and then placed her in his clay pot.
"He chose her?" asked all the flowers in unison.
"How could this be? She is too petite!" cried the Tulips.
"Why, she is too bright!" sang the Roses.
"Wouldn't he rather have a wider, more open flower?" howled the Chrysanthemums, who were no longer laughing.
The boy waddled towards his mother, trampling countless Tulips, Roses, and Chrysanthemums along the way. He handed his pot to her, proud of his selection. The Dandelion wept once more. However, she was not discouraged or disheartened or even dejected. She was happy, and had never felt more lanky, fierce, or wide. The boy's mother carried the pot inside of the barn, and placed her on a windowsill, next to 4 other Dandelions from past years. The flower was shy, and sat in the sunshine silently.
"Just what are you trying to do?" the other Dandelions said in unison. "You are much too quiet, yes, too quiet indeed. You must converse with us, you see. A Dandelion is what you are welcome to be."
And on that window sill, for many years more, she danced. She swayed. She bloomed, withered, and bloomed once more.