My Flower may still be a bud, but If I don't get better at hanging on to that wall I'm gonna be dead-headed before I know it.
I am that plant that grows in the cracks of the floor,
fighting longer than the rest just to see the light of day.
Only to realize that I had sprouted on the factory floor
My roots are small, I have no idea what plant I seeded from
I can sense few others around me,
but at such a distance.
The workers take kindly to me,
they give me some soil and water.
Under the fluorescent hum I have learned to stretch my roots,
to push against the stone that surrounds me,
to dig until they can touch the ground.
They reached it once,
not too long ago,
and all at once I was connected with something.
I saw the world as it was meant to be seen,
the verdant grass,
the rich brown soil,
a yellow sun in a blue sky,
and a white moon in a black night.
Color was free there and so was I,
but at once the ground shook and my limbs were torn from me.
That is why I reach for the ones around me,
so that we might gather our roots together and strike through this concrete coffin,
so we may burst forth unto the world,
and blend our colors with the rest.
My flower may only be a bud, but my roots are thick, and when they join others they can break free of any prison.